


Sudulthurkh

by nightchaser_sla



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Aule is a romantic at heart, Battle of Five Armies Fix-It, DRAGON!!!!!!, Denethor's A+ Parenting, Durincest, Everybody Lives, Here be Nazgul, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Mpreg, Multi, Slow Build, The Arkenstone is a BAMF in its own right, incest ... just so much incest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-11
Updated: 2015-12-06
Packaged: 2018-01-04 08:49:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 37
Words: 32,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1078990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightchaser_sla/pseuds/nightchaser_sla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three years after the Battle of the Five Armies, a heartsick and abandoned Bilbo comes across a Dwarf merchant selling jewellery in the local markets. It is then that he discovers that Kili ... now betrothed to Crown Prince Fili ... has been captured by Saurons minions and is being held for ransom within Mordor itself. The price for his return? The Arkenstone and the head of the King Under the Mountain. </p><p>Bilbo is summoned to Rivendell for a meeting of the Elves about the destiny of Middle Earth now that their enemy has regained his strength. It is then that he discovers that he alone carries, within his pocket, the one thing that can save Kili's life and indeed the lives of all in Middle Earth.</p><p>Or the story in which Bilbo travels to Mordor to save Kili from Sauron.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Royal Seal of Durin.

**Author's Note:**

> I actually dreamed this story up last night and have quickly hashed together the first five chapters. I have stolen a few ideas from some of my other works, however nothing integral to the plot itself.
> 
> Please enjoy.
> 
> Sudulthurkh - Dangerous Road.

 

**THE ROYAL SEAL OF DURIN**

 

Banished … Exiled … Under pain of death.

It held a certain finality about it. A very presence which seemed to weigh down on him and made his chest feel as though it was going to cave in at any moment. It was this pain which had driven him onto the battlefield, had driven him to the madness of once again taking on the pale orc with nothing more than his ‘letter opener’ and his magic ring.

Bilbo found himself rubbing subconsciously at his right thigh, simply thinking about Azog and the battle seemed enough to cause him physical pain. Then again that seemed only fair since the pain in his very soul tortured him all day every day, a pain caused by the knowledge that the family of his soul was on the other side of Middle Earth and he would never see them again.

Never. By the maker it seemed like such a long time, especially since he often found himself gazing into the distance towards the East with the knowledge that his feet would not follow his mind in that direction.

He blinked back tears as he settled himself on his beloved bench in his mothers garden, looking out over Hobbiton. He knew that he should be content, happy even, to have returned to the Shire in, mostly, one piece and with enough riches to live comfortably for the rest of his life. Bilbo however had never been your normal Hobbit, even before going on his adventure he’d been thought of as odd for not wanting to settle down and raise a whole smial full of fauntlings.

Oh it wasn’t even as though he had had a lack of pretty Hobbit lasses, or even lads, that had attempted to court him in the three years since he had returned. Having chests full of Dwarvish gold and a few rackish looking scars didn’t hurt in making him seem more attractive. And sure it helped to puff up his ego quite nicely every time he was shyly handed a bouquet or wreath of flowers, but unfortunately his preference had changed considerably over the last few years.

Instead of the soft bodies and curly hair of the Hobbits, he now found himself drawn to harsh angles, broad shoulders, and beards. Not that there was much , or indeed any, of that in the Shire. Sometimes he considered traveling to the Blue Mountains just to look upon Dwarves again. Then he always remembered that Thorin Oakenshield was not just King Under the Mountain, but indeed the King in Ered Luin as well. His decree that Bilbo be killed on sight probably had extended out this far by now, it was the main reason why he tended to hide in Tookborough whenever he got word that Dwarves were in the Shire.

Ever since Erebor had been reclaimed there had been many caravans of settlers and merchants traveling back and forth along the Great East Road. In fact the mountain folk had made such an impression on the Hobbits, that the Thain was even considering trade with Erebor. Bilbo had done everything he could to be the voice of reason, informing his kin that the Shire surely didn’t have anything that the richest of the Dwarf kingdoms could possibly need. Then however word had come that wool, textiles, dried fruit and meats, and herbs were required in Erebor. Apparently the soils of Ered Luin were rocky and frozen, and those around the newly rebuilt Dale had yet to yield anything productive.

More than likely due to the dragon.

Bilbo took a puff of his pipe and exhaled the smoke slowly. He could only hope that Thorin wouldn’t punish all Hobbits for the actions of one. Then again the last Bilbo had known, the King hadn’t exactly been in his right mind.

“G’morning Mister Baggins.” He looked up and found himself smiling at Hamfast Gamgee, his friend and neighbour, standing at his gate.

“Good morning Hamfast,” he answered. “And what a lovely morning it is.”

“That it is,” said Hamfast, leaning against the letterbox. “Spring is definitely in the air.”

“And how is that charming wife of yours?”

Hamfast fairly beamed at that, his whole face lighting up with love and awe. “Fine, just fine.”

Bilbo couldn’t help but feel nothing but overwhelming joy for them, which was a nice change from the hollowness he usually felt. Hamfast’s little wife Bell was petite even by Hobbit standards, whereas her husband was as portly and ruddy as any Shireling. When she had gotten pregnant there were many who were concerned for Bell’s health. Even though she had made it thus far with very few issues, there was still fear that she would be unable to birth the child. It seemed that none of this had dampened Hamfast’s enthusiasm, and Bilbo could only hope everything went well.

Then again if anybody knew what a difficult pregnancy and complicated birth was like it was Bilbo. He shook his head quickly, it did no good to dwell on such things. Looking back at Hamfast, he was horrified to see a knowing look full of pity on his round face. It was times like this that he regretted having gotten drunk at Daisy Proudfoot’s birthday last autumn and confessed his greatest of secrets to his oldest of friends.

“Anyway I suppose you’re wanting to be by her side in case anything is to happen,” he said brightly, though he knew that his friend would see right through it.

“You’re quite right of course,” said Hamfast, giving the nearest fence post an affectionate pat. “Well I guess I’ll be off Mister Baggins.”

Bilbo nodded and took another puff of his pipe. “Good day Master Gamgee.”

“Good day.” Hamfast gave a quick nod of his head and then strolled off down the path whistling all the way.

Well, thought Bilbo, there goes that plan of not thinking about the past.

Two hours after his conversation with Hamfast, and after a hearty elevenses had been consumed, that Bilbo found himself at the markets. He desperately needed to restock his larder for it had been a long winter, and even though there was always mutton and pork to be bought, as well as preserved and pickled fruit and vegetables, it would be nice to have some variety for his supper.

Like every Hobbit who had ever existed, Bilbo found it difficult not to enjoy a good farmers market. There were stalls laden with fish, meat, and the freshest of vegetables, and even one full of baskets of mushrooms which made his mouth water.

One of the best things about the markets was that no one ignored him and there were no whispers about ‘mad Baggins’ behind his back. This was one of the few places that his wealth gained him respect, there were many willing to pretend to be friendly when it came to money.

Quickly filling his baskets with cheese, sausages, apples, and some lovely bacon from old Rufus the butcher, he soon found himself drifting over to the far end of the markets. Here were the stalls which sold such things as yarn, furniture, clothes, and blown glass.

“Ye interested in jewellery little one?” The voice which interrupted his inspection over a particularly beautiful broach, made his heart all but stop in his chest.

Looking up quickly he found himself staring at the bright red beard, and braided hair of a Dwarf, one that was close enough to Gloin and Oin in appearance that he was clearly a relative of some kind. Thankfully though Bilbo didn’t recognize him as one of the Dwarves he had seen when Dain had marched to Erebor’s aid.

“It is very lovely,” he answered, hoping that the Dwarf wouldn’t hear the quaver in his voice.

“Aye,” said the Dwarf. “That would be Dwarvan craftsmanship.”                

Bilbo nodded, turning the broach over in his hand. It was quite a remarkable piece and would be perfect as a birthing gift for Bell.

“How much?” he asked.

“Depends on what you’re willing to trade.”

Digging into the pocket of his favourite maroon waistcoat, he quickly pulled out the small pouch of coins he had brought with him for purchases.

“Gold,” he answered.

The shaggy eyebrows of the Dwarf nearly disappeared into his braids. Bilbo could completely understand his surprise, after all very few Hobbits carried gold.

“Gold?” he asked. “Good quality?”

Bilbo sighed, he had managed to hide his identity thus far from the many wandering merchants, but if he wanted this broach he had to risk being identified.

“The best by all accounts,” he answered, removing one of the coins and handing it over.

There was a few seconds of silence and then. “This is Ereborian gold.”

“Yes I know,” said Bilbo, crossing his arms across his chest defensively.

The Dwarf ran one large finger over the date stamped above the Durin royal crest on the gold. “It was made before the forges were re-fired. From before …” His voice trailed off.

“From before Smaug I would think.” Bilbo finished.

“There are rumours,” muttered the Dwarf. “Rumours that a Halfling helped retake Erebor, but they’re nothing more than rumours.”

“I can assure you Master Dwarf they are not,” said Bilbo.

“But nobody speaks openly about it.” The Dwarf gave him a hard look. “Its all whispers in the dark.”

“No I suppose nobody would, not worth their heads I’d say,” he said. “Now will you take it as payment for the broach?”

Yes,” answered the Dwarf. “Aye I will at that.”

“Good.” Bilbo placed both his money poach and the broach back into his pocket. “Thank you.”

“I suppose not being in contact with Erebor you haven’t heard about the Crown Prince’s betrothed?”

Bilbo felt his heart give a lurch. Fili was courting and engaged? It was not something he would ever have guessed would happen in all the time he had spent with Thorin’s heir whilst they were on the road together.

“Fili is betrothed?” he whispered.

“Aye,” answered the Dwarf. “And Prince Kili his beloved was abducted while on a hunting trip in Mirkwood. He is being held for ransom.”

“And what is the price?” breathed Bilbo.

“The Arkenstone.” Bilbo closed his eyes in despair. “And King Thorin himself.”


	2. Lady of Carven Stone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gondor comes to the aid of Erebor in its time of need. Though their price may be one that is to much to bear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh wow guys thanks for the amazing response, I honestly didn't think this would be anywhere near as popular as its become.
> 
> I am hoping to update daily and have a working length of around 50,000 words but think that it may be far more than that. Its been written with pen and paper though so this may be slow going.

**LADY OF CARVEN STONE**

 

 

Dis, daughter of Fris, found that she had to lift up the skirt of her sapphire blue dress which had been made from only the finest of velvet, as she hurried up the stairs to the southern battlement. She knew exactly how she appeared to those which she raced past in her rush: out of breath, face flushed, and braids a mess around her face and shoulders, she looked more like a dirty urchin than a Princess of the line of Durin who was approaching her hundred and sixty-first birthday.

Not that she rightly cared about any of that this morning, for word had finally come from Gondor.

Her brother was standing upon the battlement, looking regal and strong as he stared down at whatever was down at the gates. To his left stood Balin and Dwalin, sons of Fundin, both dressed in thick furs as there was still a bite to the air up here. However it was Fili whom she felt her gaze drawn to. Her beloved first born son was pale and unnaturally thin, as though his very life force was being drained from his body, was stood on his Uncle and Kings right side.

Dis could still remember quite clearly the day that her beautiful boy, her golden haired son, had confessed his greatest secret to her. Barely out of childhood himself, Fili had clung to her sobbing as they sat beside the fire in their tiny house in Ered Luin, admitting that he loved his brother. She had thought it had been nothing more than adolescent fancy, after all Kili had already been turning heads despite his relatively young age.

However as the years went on it became clear that Fili’s attraction hadn’t waivered once towards the Dwarrowdams nor the craftsmen and warriors that were vying for the young Prince’s attention. Sure there had been rumours of his dalliances, as was typical of a boy his age, but never anything serious had resulted from them. It was also around this time that it became clear, to Dis at least, that Fili’s love wasn’t quite as unrequited as he believed.

It was these memories of a better time that made Dis walk to her son and wrap her arm around his shoulders, propriety be damned.

“Amad,” he whispered, voice sounding broken and weak.

“I know my son,” She pressed a quick kiss to his temple. “I know.”

He nodded his head in reply, and she saw his throat work as he attempted to swallow down his pain and sorrow. Beneath them, upon the road which led from the newly rebuilt Dale to the great gates of Erebor, was a small company of men on horseback. So this was what Gondor had sent to negotiate their aid in finding her youngest. Thorin seemed to have been carved from the very stone itself, so still that he could have easily have passed for a statue if it wasn’t for his hair blowing in the wind. Never had she been more grateful for her stoic older brother, for the fact that even though he was easily a head shorter than most of these men, he was still an intimidating presence.

“King Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror.” The man at the lead of the company yelled up to the battlements. He appeared fairly young, a few short years into his adulthood, though it was always difficult to tell with men. “I am Boromir, son of Denethor, the Steward of Gondor.”

“Denethor sent his own son.” She heard Balin mutter to the King. “They are taking this very seriously.”

Thorin snorted at that. “It means he is taking our wealth very seriously.”

“Whatever it takes to secure the safety of my son.” Dis interjected, standing tall as their gazes moved to her.

“Aye.” Thorin nodded, then he turned to yell down the battlements. “Open the gates!”

Within the hour Boromir and the guards, which had been sent with him on his long journey from Minas Tirith, were standing in the great throne room of Erebor.

Dis, and the rest of the council members, followed them across the causeway to where Thorin sat upon the giant throne made of stone, Fili sat to his right. Dis found herself having to blink back tears at the sight of the empty chair on the Kings other side, the chair in which Kili would usually have sat in making rude faces in order to make his brother laugh.

“Lord Boromir.” Thorin stood from his throne, one heavy hand resting on his nephew’s shoulder in support before he stepped down to meet their guests. “You are most welcome in Erebor.”

Boromir, for his part, stepped forwards with his fist pressed to his heart as he gave a small bow in greeting.

“Your majesty,” he said. “Erebor called to Gondor for aid.”

“And Gondor answered,” said Thorin.

Dis could completely understand her brother, and his advisors, surprise that these men were actually here and standing in the great hall. Men very rarely got involved in the affairs of the other races within Middle Earth, far to concerned with their own squabbles and wars. Ever since Sauron had burned the white tree of Minas Ithil, and waged war upon Gondor, the man of Minas Tirith had kept to themselves more than most.

“Your rider called for our help as one of your heirs has been abducted by the Dark Lord of Mordor,” said Boromir.

Thorin nodded and moved to sit back on his throne, the many rings adorning his fingers clinking against the stone.

“This is true,” he said, glancing first at Dis and then at Fili. “My nephew Kili was taken by Orcs three months past.”

Boromir frowned. “And how do you know that he has not been killed?”

“We have been asked for a ransom,” answered Balin, and Dis saw him catch the Kings eye. “Also we have not yet found his head outside of our gates.”

Dis felt herself flinch at that, and very nearly lost her breakfast over the side of the causeway.

“Gondor stands beside Erebor and its young Prince,” said Boromir. “No matter what his fate.”

“And what is Lord Denethor’s price?” demanded Thorin. “For such generosity.”

At that Boromir swept his arm back so as to bring forwards another man. He was maybe a handful of years younger than Boromir, fair of face and with the kind of grace which one just did not find amongst Dwarves.

“This is my brother Faramir,” he said, clapping the younger man on the shoulder. “And our father sends him as a potential Consort for the King of Erebor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When it comes to the ages of Boromir and Faramir, I see Boromir being about ten years older than Aragorn who would be around 11 or 12 at this stage, Faramir being maybe three years younger than his brother. This however is just my head canon and is probably very very different to what Tolkien had.


	3. Tharkun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gandalf and Arathorn ride from Rivendell to the Shire. It doesn't take long until they realized that they are not the only ones hunting for the Ring Bearer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm actually getting through this story a lot faster than I thought, it is however proving not only that it has a life of its own but that it is going to be a lot longer than originally anticipated. 
> 
> This is just a little filler chapter which helps to tie all the separate storylines together. Not my favourite thing to write but certainly integral to the plot.

**THARKUN**

 

 

It was the first day of April when Gandalf the Grey rode from Imladris along the East road, heading towards the green lands to the distant West. He was riding fast, and knew that he would have to ride hard if he was to reach the Shire and then return before the white council met to discuss the recent concerns coming from the East.

By his side rode Arathorn, son of Arador, heir to the ancient King of men Isilduir. A frown was etched onto his handsome face, and he was radiating tension from his every pore. It would seem that even men could sense the darkness on the horizon, or maybe it was just Arathorn’s own anxiety of coming face to face with the bane of his line. Either way it did his companion good to be cautious, after all he of all people knew of both the Ring’s power and danger.

“And you are sure it is the One Ring in the Halflings possession?” Arathorn asked that evening when they had stopped to rest the horses and have something to eat. “There are many rings of power in this world.”

Gandalf chewed on the end of his pipe and mused over his answer to that particular query. Arathorn was indeed correct, there were many rings of power in Middle Earth each of them with different abilities and purposes. However there was only one which radiated evil in this way, which made it feel as though a great storm was bearing down from the West.

Yes, the only answer was one which filled Gandalf with dread: Bilbo Baggins had somehow found the One Ring.

“I am certain,” he answered, watching his companion slowly eating his rabbit stew.

“And where did you come by this knowledge?” asked Arathorn.

“Minas Tirith,” answered Gandalf, gazing up at the stars which filled the clear spring sky. “I came by Isilduir’s journal there, it describes the Ring and the power it has over its bearer.”

He knew better than to mention the way Arathorn’s face darkened at the mention of Minas Tirith, he could only imagine how difficult it must be to be a King without a Kingdom. He had seen it before.

“And Denethor let you into his private archives?” asked Arathorn, his voice harsh.

“Denethor’s mind may be troubled, but even he has the ability to be distracted by the promise of gold.”

Arathorn raised an eyebrow, and the pulled out his pipe. “Gold? Gondor has no mines for gold, all of its goods are gained through trade and barter.”

“Which is why Denethor is willing to give up nearly anything to get his hands on more gold than you could ever imagine.” Gandalf offered him a light which was gratefully accepted.

“How much gold are we talking?” asked Arathorn.

Gandalf narrowed his eyes beneath his heavy brows, he had always been wary of those to interested in gold.

“More than could ever be counted,” he answered. “The whole reason that we march upon Mordor now is because something has been taken and Gondor’s aid has been secured. For a price.”

“And what exactly has been taken that is worth that kind of gold?”

“His name is Kili, son Vili, and he is of Durin’s line,” muttered Gandalf around the stem of his pipe.

“A Dwarf?” hissed Arathorn, sitting forwards so as to catch Gandalf’s eye in the firelight. “We do this for the sake of a Dwarf, and one of a cursed line at that?”

Gandalf felt his temper rising, of all the Dwarves that roamed upon and beneath Middle Earth, he had found young Kili one of the more likeable and genuine of his kind. The very idea that a man, of all things, would speak in such a way downplayed Kili’s very worth and was nothing short of scandalous.

“Kili is very important to his people,” he said, unable to keep the harsh edge from his voice. “And he is most important to me.”

Arathorn slowly nodded his head.

“And exactly how much have the Dwarves offered Denethor for his safe return?”

“Gold is not what Denethor wants,” answered Gandalf.

“I thought you said …” Began Arathorn, but he was quickly silenced by a wave of the wizard’s hand.

“The Lord of Gondor wants Erebor itself,” said Gandalf. “By offering the hand of his youngest son in marriage to Thorin Oakenshield.”

No more was said that night, and eventually Gandalf dozed off into a dreamless sleep.

It was on their third day of traveling from Rivendell that they were attacked.

“A scouting party,” said Arathorn, as his sword made quick work of the last Orc. “They brought enough warg’s for a long journey.”

Gandalf crouched beside the fallen body of one of the Orc’s, prying the sword from its dead hand. It was a terrifyingly familiar blade.

“They hail from Mordor,” he said, voice northing more than a harsh whisper.

“What are they doing this close to the Shire?” demanded Arathorn, cleaning black blood from his sword and re-sheathing it on his hip. “The servants of Mordor have never been out this far West,  at least not in this age.”

“Sauron’s strength has returned,” answered Gandalf. “He senses the Ring.”

“The Halfling,” said Arathorn.

Dropping the Orc’s sword on the ground, Gandalf quickly got to his feet. The very thought of little Bilbo Baggins, despite his incredible bravery and passionate bearing, being hunted by Orcs was enough to make him very afraid indeed.

“We must ride swiftly,” he said. “We need to get Bilbo into the safety of Rivendell.”

Arathorn looked suitably concerned, and he mounted his horse with no further urging, then as one they made towards the Shire.


	4. King of Silver Fountains.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Faramir and Thorin discuss their betrothal. We learn that Denethor is more insane than originally thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for the unbelievable support during this.

**KING OF SILVER FOUNTAINS**

 

 

“No.” The voice of the King Beneath the Mountain echoed off of the stone walls of the meeting room in which they had retired to. “Absolutely not.”

Faramir drummed his fingers against the granite table top nervously, glancing up at the figure his irritated brother cut amongst all these Dwarves.

“And why not?” demanded Boromir, towering over the Dwarven King who appeared neither concerned nor intimidated by him.

Then again, mused Faramir, the King had enough of a presence that he seemed to fill the very room despite the top of his head barely reaching Boromir’s chin.

“There are many reasons,” answered Thorin. “Not least of which is that he is but a child.”

Faramir immediately took offence to that though he could see how the Dwarf, with silver streaking his long dark hair and shorn beard, could see him as a child.

“I am no child,” he said, getting to his feet. “I am nineteen years old.”

Those sharp blue eyes settled on him. “At nineteen Dwarrow babes are still on their mother’s teat.”

“I am not a Dwarf,” he said quietly.

“That,” said Thorin. “Is quite obvious.”

“You don’t understand how dire this situation is!” exclaimed Boromir, his voice cracking with emotion.

The Dwarves all looked at each other and then began bickering amongst themselves in Khuzdul. Finally after a few tense moments the shortest of them, an elderly Dwarf with a long white beard and lines creasing his face, who had a kindly look about him. Faramir though he’d heard the King call him Balin.

“Then why don’t you tell us laddie?” he said, all but nudging Thorin out of the way so that they weren’t in range of his impressive glower.

“If.” Faramir had to swallow down the lump in his throat. “If I return to Gondor without at least a betrothal to the line of Durin, my father will have me executed for treason.”

“Your own father?” whispered Balin, his face filled with horror and sadness.

Silence filled the room as this piece of information seemed to have shocked all those present.

“If we are to wed,” said Thorin, holding his hand up for silence as some of the Dwarves in the back of the room began to complain. “It will be for political reasons alone, while in time there may be kindness, and affection, and friendship between us there will never be love. My heart belongs to another.”

Faramir nodded and glanced up at his brother. “As does mine.”

“There is no word for divorce in Khuzdul, because it is not something done by my people,” said Throin, folding his arms across his barrel chest. “I may not be a young Dwarf anymore, but Mahal willing I may have yet another hundred years left. Now I am aware that your people are long lived in comparison to the men of the West, but that means you will be bound to this grumpy old Dwarf for the rest of your life.”

“I understand,” he whispered.

“I have no issue with you taking another lover.” And here the King gave Boromir a look of understanding, and Faramir felt his heart soar when he realized that Thorin _knew_ and didn’t seem to care. “As long as you are discreet.”

“Yes of course,” he answered.

With that Throin walked over to him. “Sit.”

Faramir had a feeling that there was not a man nor Dwarrow alive who would deny such a request when spoken by Thorin Oakenshield. With a small smile at his now betrothed, he slid back into his seat, watching as the kings thick fingers nimbly unwound strands of his dark hair from a blue and silver bead, carefully unwinding the braid it held in place once it was free.

There was several gasps of surprise, and then Balin’s voice. “Thorin?”

“Silence,” ordered the King, and then much to Faramir’s surprise a section of his hair by his left temple was separated and quickly braided. Thorin stepping back once the bead had been secured.

“It suits you,” said Boromir, his fingers ghosting over the braid.

“You are now my betrothed and can send word to your father,” said Thorin. “Also inform him that there will be no wedding until my nephew is back in Erebor where he belongs.”

“Very well,” said Boromir.

“Dwalin,” said Thorin, and a terrifying looking Dwarf nearly as big as a man and covered in tattoos pushed away from the wall where he had been lounging, and came to stand beside his King.

“Aye,” he said.

“Can you please show our guests to their rooms for they must be exhausted after their long journey, and get one of the servants to ready the courting room?” said Thorin, and the huge Dwarf quickly nodded.

“Come on then.” He gestured for them to follow him towards the door. “This way.”

Faramir had been brought up amongst the huge stone walls and battlements of Minas Tirith, but even he had to admit that Erebor was one of the biggest and incredibly beautiful places in Middle Earth. Fortunately Mister Dwalin seemed to be the strong and silent type, only talking in order to give directions, though he did level his impressive glare on the Dwarves they passed who tried to comment on Faramir’s braid.

They eventually reached the rooms which the Dwarves had set up for them, and they were surprisingly nice. Two large interconnected rooms with high vaulted ceilings, a canopied bed, desk, dresser, and through a door at the far end of the room were bathing facilities.

“Thank you Master Dwalin,” he said, turning back to the Dwarf and giving him a small smile.

“If anyone gives you any trouble,” said Dwalin, placing a hand on his shoulder. “You come and tell me alright laddie?”

Faramir reached up and gripped the Dwarf’s wrist, giving it a small squeeze hoping that it would convey how grateful he was that someone had his best interests at heart here.

“Yes,” he said. “Thank you again Master Dwalin.”

“No problem laddie.” Dwalin gave Boromir a brief nod, and then left the room closing the door quietly after himself.

The moment they were alone, Boromir strode over and cupped his face in his large hands.

“It’s the only way.” Boromir pressed his forehead against Faramir’s. “It was the only way to keep you alive.”

“I know,” he said, taking his brothers hand and kissing his fingers. “I will be fine here, the Dwarf King will treat me with kindness I am sure of it.”

“I will come to you as often as I am able, and as soon as father is dead I will send for you.”

“I love you,” he whispered, craning his neck so as to press his lips to the jut of his brothers jaw.


	5. Of the Shire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Orcs come to the Shire. Gandalf is not amused.

Orcs. There were Orcs in the Shire, something that hadn’t happened since the Fell Winter. The stories had come from a group of Tooks who had been traveling along the eastern border of the Shire, they had only just been able to escape with their lives. Hobbiton was all but abandoned, nobody daring to leave their smials, and when they did they went in large groups clutching anything they could get their little hands on as a weapon. Bilbo spent most of his days sat in his study, one hand on Sting while the other one held whatever book he happened to be reading at the time, and trying to desperately not think about the last time he had been anticipating Orcs to storm the door down. He knew the other Hobbits were waiting for him to do something, for once ‘mad Baggins’ and his adventure may actually be useful.

Bilbo, however, was far too afraid to even leave Bag End lest he came into contact with these foul beasts that haunted his dreams. Instead he waited in his cozy smial for word that someone had finally been killed, or that a Hobbit hole had finally been ransacked.

And then one night, three weeks after the Tooks had raised the alarm, he heard something which made his blood run cold and the hair to stand up on the nape of his neck. A warg howl, one that was far closer than he could ever be comfortable with. Breathing hard he tightened his grip on Sting, knuckles turning white as he crept towards the window and peered outside.

The night was unusually dark, no moon high in the sky to illuminate the winding paths and little gardens of Hobbiton. There was the occasional round window lit by candles, but for the most part the Hobbits were probably cowering in the dark and hoping that they made it through til dawn, Bilbo hadn’t had the heart to tell them that the danger did not disappear come morning.

“You’re just spooking yourself Bilbo Baggins,” he muttered, lowering Sting and turning away from the window.

At that moment there was a great crash from the back of the smial, in the direction of the bedrooms, and Bilbo knew that they had broken in through the East facing window. Immediately he felt numb, the prospect of being cut down in his own home was a very different feeling than marching into battle or even taken on giant spiders.

Oh Thorin, he thought even as he prepared to fight, I am so very very sorry.

The first Orc came ambling down the hallway, a smirk on its face as it contemplated fighting this soft little creature in its hole in the hill. Clearly it hadn’t expected a small blue glowing blade to slice open its stomach, a look of surprise on its face as it fell to the floor in a puddle of black blood. Orcs two and three went in a similar manner, however Bilbo soon found himself surrounded by the vile creatures and he knew that there was no way out of this situation.

“Where is the ring?” demanded the largest of the Orcs, as it slowly circled him in his own sitting room.

So that’s what this was all about, they were after his magic ring. A magic ring which was, as always, in the left hand pocket of his waistcoat, and he had to force himself not to reach for it. Nothing was going to save him this time, not even invisibility, plus he had learned on the battlefield of Erebor that Orcs could smell him whether he was wearing his ring or not.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, lifting up his chin and staring the Orc straight in the eye.

“Do not lie to me Halfling,” it hissed. “I have no problems in removing parts of you until you tell me where to find the ring.”

“No,” answered Bilbo, attempting to be brave despite the waver in his voice.

Just as the Orc raised his sword there was a knock on the door and almost as one the Orcs turned to face the door, seeing the distraction as good a time as any to make his escape. Quickly sheathing his sword, he did a quick calculation of distance and then sprinted between to of the Orcs, vaulted onto his desk and then did a rolling jump through the window. Pain exploded through his as he crashed through the glass, shards of the blasted stuff piercing most of his body, and he let out a cry as he landed head first into a rhododendron bush. His sudden appearance must have shocked the two men standing at his door for they both just stared at him, hands halfway to the hilt of their swords. It was when he noticed that one of them was carrying a tall staff and wearing a pointy hat that he felt a rush of relief come over him.

“Gandalf,” he said, clambering to his feet and pointing at the glowing sword in his hand. “Orcs.”

The other man turned back to the door. “Is it locked?”

“Yes,” answered Bilbo, suddenly there was the sound of the heavy metal locks being pulled back and the door swung open. “No.”

It didn’t take very long at all for Gandalf and the man with him to dispose of the remaining Orcs, and once they were done Gandalf gave him a quick hug. “Are you injured?”

“No not at all,” he answered. “Just a bit sore and bruised but nothing that won’t heal.”

“Good.” Gandalf pulled back and looked him in the eye. “Do you know what they were here for?”

“They said they were after a ring,” he said. “Though I don’t know what …”

“Do not lie to me Bilbo Baggins.” Gandalf’s voice had a dark and booming quality, very much like that night in his smial when the Dwarves had been arguing about Bilbo’s ability to be a burglar. “I am trying to help you.”

Bilbo fidgeted with the hem of his waistcoat, something in him reluctant to tell Gandalf his secret, though he did jump when another warg howl pierced the air.

“We need to leave this place,” said the man, his sword still drawn and a tight look on his face,

“Bilbo?” Gandalf’s voice brokered no argument.

With a deep sigh, Bilbo slowly pulled the ring from his pocket and held it out to his friend.

However the moment the Wizard reached out for the small band of gold, he quickly snatched his hand back and scrambled to his feet a look of shocked horror on his wizened face. “Put it back in your pocket. We must now ride for Rivendell.”

With that he strode towards two horses that were tied up against his garden fence, the man coming forwards to place his hand on Bilbo’s shoulder.

“Come Master Hobbit,” he said, gently leading him in the same direction as Gandalf.

“But my home,” said Bilbo, glancing back at where four dead Orcs were laying in the doorway.

“Is lost to us,” answered the man. “Now come if your life means anything to you.”


	6. Prince of the Woodland Realm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Dwarf sets out to Mordor in search of the lost Prince. Legolas offers his services.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a small update to start one of my many plot twists and sub-plots.

There was a Dwarf in Mirkwood. Not three months ago this wouldn’t have been unusual, yet since Prince Kili had been captured by Orcs from between these trees, the sons of Erebor had not set foot in the forest. Legolas didn’t like to admit it, but he missed the children of Mahal traipsing along the paths singing their funny songs and laughing at their frankly dirty jokes, which was why he had decided to follow this particular one as it travelled south.

He seemed rather tall for a Dwarf, with a long red beard and shock of red hair which was separated into thick sections secured by rings of gold. A large axe, taller than the Dwarf himself, was held in one hand whilst the other was tugging on one of the braids in his beard. It was clear that despite his head which was raised high and the determined look upon his surprisingly fair face, this particular Dwarf was anxious whether about the journey ahead or what he was leaving behind Legolas was not sure. Either way he found that he could not bear to see the stout creature so disturbed, brown eyes darting both around the forest surrounding him, as well as back towards the mountain he seemed to be fleeing from.

His legs seemed to move without any conscious thought, and before Legolas really knew what was happening he had leapt from tree to tree until he was in front of the Dwarf, dropping gracefully to the road before him. The little ones reflexes much have been remarkably swift for Legolas had an axe blade against his throat before he could respond in kind.

“Just what do ye think you’re doin’?” The Dwarves voice was thickly accented, more so than a lot of his kin which meant that he had been brought up in the Blue Mountains rather than in Erebor.

“I was going to ask the same of you Master Dwarf,” answered Legolas, taking a weary step back and away from the axe which still hadn’t been lowered. “It has been quite some time since I’ve seen one of your people in these woods.”

“I be heading South,” answered the Dwarf, throwing his axe over his shoulder. “To Mordor.”

Legolas started at that.

“You go to save your Prince then?” he asked. “I would have thought the King Under the Mountain would have sent more than one Dwarf, no matter how brave he may be.”

“King Thorin is my kinsman,” answered the Dwarf, glancing back in the direction of Erebor. “And he doesn’t know where I’m going.”

Well that certainly explained the nervous fidgeting and the way he kept glancing behind him as if he expected something to attack him from the trees, he was waiting for his kinsman to realize that he had left and send someone out to collect him.

“So you travel to the realm of the Dark Lord with neither your King’s knowledge nor blessing?” mused Legolas. “You will surely not survive this quest, it is foolish.”

“What is foolish you tree-shagging pointy ear, is sitting in that mountain waitin’ for Prince Kili to die.”

Legolas knew that the Dwarf had been trying to insult him, but said in that accent it did nothing but make him grin in amusement. “And what is your name little one?”

“Little!” exclaimed the Dwarf. “I’ll give you little you …”

“Name Master Dwarf if you will.” Legolas interrupted the oncoming tirade.

“Gimli,” came the answer. “Gimli son of Gloin.”

“Very well Gimli son of Gloin,” he said, letting his hand rest on one nicely broad shoulder. “I am Legolas Greenleaf, and if you are planning to enter Mordor in search of your kinsman you are going to need a guide.”


	7. The Courting Room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We finally learn what the courting room is (and its not as kinky as first expected). Thorin is basically just a big softie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I never actually planned to write any Thorin/Faramir fluff ... however I couldn't help it poor Faramir is just so vulnerable and sad. So here be fluff.

Boromir left the next morning, and even though Faramir wanted nothing more than to cling to his older brother and beg him not to go he knew that it would be pointless. It was Boromir alone that had so far managed to stop Gondor completely falling into ruin under the hand of an insane Steward, and an extended absence may possibly lead their people to that end. So he wrapped himself around the bulkier form of his brother in the early hours of the morning, memorizing the feel of his skin and his smell to help get him through the long nights that were to come.

It had nearly killed him to watch Boromir ride away from Erebor, and then when his bay stallion was finally out of sight, to turn back to the huge Dwarven fortress and try to make the best of his situation. Reaching up he ran his fingers along the braid which Thorin had placed in his hair, a symbol that he now belonged to another though his heart ached for someone else. Though if what the Dwarf King had said was the truth he wasn’t the only one who suffered in this way.

“Oh there you are.” The voice was feminine and came from further down the battlement, causing Faramir to turn and look in that direction.

Lady Dis, sister of King Thorin, was striding towards him with her skirts swirling around her ankles. She looked so much like her brother that it was frankly terrifying, and if she hadn’t been wearing a dress and have a much slimmer frame it would be easy to confuse the two.

“My Lady.” He gave a short bow, only to find himself forced to stand upright as she pushed on his shoulders.

“If you are to be Consort to the King of Erebor you need to remember that you don’t bow to anyone,” she said, patting him gently on the cheek. “Now speaking of my brother he asked me to come and get you to show you to the courting room.”

With that she turned and walked down the stairs leading from the battlements into the main gallery of the city, and he had to hurry to catch up with her.

“What exactly is a courting room?” he asked, his longer legs thankfully making it relatively easy to keep up with her faster pace.

“It is the room that you will live in whilst you and Thorin are courting,” answered Dis, gesturing at him over her shoulder. “When you are wed you will move into the Consort’s apartments.”

“Oh,” said Faramir, following her as she led him down the corridor into the Royal wing of Erebor. “It all seems very complicated.”

Dis stopped outside a pair of huge oak doors set into an enormous stone archway, Faramir didn’t even need to ask whose room this was. During the past two days of his betrothal he hadn’t really thought about what he had gotten himself into. It was behind these doors that he was expected to spend his wedding night, in the bed of Thorin Oakenshield. If Dwarves were anything like the men of Gondor he would even be expected to spend many a night before the wedding beneath the King.

It wasn’t that Faramir was against sharing a bed with his betrothed, he was handsome enough for a Dwarf and since he was nearly three times Faramir’s age he could probably teach him a few things. However he had only been with Boromir, and the very idea of anyone else touching him so intimately filled him with dread.

“You have no reason to fear my brother,” said Dis, her slim yet calloused hand resting on his elbow. “He will not force himself on you, he knows he has me to answer to if he so much as looks at you the wrong way.”

“Thank you.” He covered her hand with his own.

She smiled at him.

“Those the Consort’s apartments,” she said, nodding in the direction of an equally large set of doors further down the corridor. “And these are the new courting rooms.”

She walked across the corridor and pressed her hand against a smaller door.

“The new courting rooms?” he asked. “What happened to the old courting rooms?”

Dis’s face fell and she looked very sad and tired all of a sudden.

“My brother had them made up many years ago, and now he insists on them being kept that way.”

Oh that seemed so incredibly tragic, this great majestic King pining away for his long lost love. It was romantic, the kind of romance that Faramir had read about in the library of Minas Tirith.

“He still has hope then?” he asked.

“His heart does,” she answered. “Even though his head knows its useless.”

“Are they dead then?” he questioned. “Thorin’s lover?”

“No,” answered Dis. “Well not as far as we know anyway. No he had to leave because …”

“Because I treated him most heinously.” Thorin’s voice echoed down the corridor, and they both turned to face him.

“I don’t believe that my Lord,” said Faramir. “You have shown nothing but kindness to my kinsmen and I.”

“I was not myself,” said Thorin, the sound of his heavy boots echoing off the stone walls as he approached them. “I called him traitor, gravely hurt him both in body and spirit, and threatened to have him killed should he return.”

Faramir pressed his hand against his mouth in shock. “Yet you love him?”

Thorin nodded. “Very much so.”

“Dwarves clearly do things differently to us,” he said.

“Not as differently as you would think,” said Dis.

“Please.” Thorin placed a hand on the small of his back, and guided him towards the door. “This is where you will be staying.”

Faramir hesitated on the threshold before pushing the door open when Thorin gave him another nod. The room was even more extravagant than his father’s rooms back in Minas Tirith, and he found it hard to believe that the Dwarves had managed to get this together in two days.

There was a foyar just beyond the doorway, with a small hearth, three sofa’s, and a round table in the corner. Beautiful tapestries lined the walls, and upon closer inspection he saw that they were maps of Middle Earth and scenes from Gondor.

“My Grandfather had these made back in the days when Erebor traded with many other cities, they were hung in the ambassadors rooms which survived the fire. I thought you might like to have something which reminded you of home.” Thorin had stepped into the room beside him, and Faramir found himself blinking back tears as he looked at his betrothed. “I know what it is like to be homesick.”

“Thank you,” whispered Faramir. “You didn’t need to do all of this.”

Thorin’s forehead creased in surprise at this. “You are my betrothed, one day will be my consort and rule Erebor at my side. This is the very least that could be done in the limited time we had, over the course of the next few weeks you will be draped in the all the jewels and finery offered by my Kingdom.”

“My Lord…” Faramir couldn’t keep the waiver from his voice, shocked at the kindness shown him.

“Thorin,” answered the King, stepping close and brushing a tear from Faramir’s cheek with the rough pad of his thumb. “We will be spending many years together and I will have you call me by my name, then when time and age has made us comfortable with each other I shall let you call me by the name of my soul.”


	8. Nazgul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exactly what the title says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was actually going to be the beginning of a longer chapter, but I found it difficult to go from the action of these scenes to the rather domesticated ones that follow. Therefore I've split the two halves up, making this a rather short update I'm afraid. Though there will be a longer one tomorrow hopefully. Maybe two.

Before thirteen Dwarves had turned up on his front doorstep Bilbo had never so much as patted a pony let alone ridden one. His first time on the back of old Myrtle had been a terrifying experience, complete with allergies and the jeering of the company as he had desperately tried to stay on the creature. However that was nothing like the bone jarring fear that came with sitting before Gandalf on his large grey horse, clinging to the wizard’s arms and trying desperately not to scream the whole way to Rivendell.

The man riding at their side, he had learned that his name was Arathorn, was an impressive looking man. He was slender but clearly a great fighter if the way he took down the Orcs at Bag End was an indicator, with shoulder length dark hair and shrewd eyes, Bilbo liked him at once.

“Gandalf,” yelled Arathorn, his voice only just reaching them over the wind and the sound of hooves on the ground. “The Halfling doesn’t look well.”

“Bilbo just isn’t accustomed to being on the back of a horse is all.” Bilbo heard Gandalf answer.

“I thought you said he had ridden before,” said Arathorn.

“On a pony,” said Bilbo.

“What?” yelled Arathorn, moving his horse closer to them.

“I said I have only ridden a pony!” Bilbo yelled back, and was shocked when the man suddenly started laughing.

“You are certainly not what I expected to find in the Shire,” he laughed, urging his horse to gallop ahead.

“No,” whispered Bilbo after him. “You’re not the first to say that about me.”

They stopped to rest for the night beneath a copse of elms where a little spring trickled through and allowed the horses some water. Arathorn lit a small fire, and before long there was a pot of stew bubbling happily over the flame while Gandalf sat back and puffed on his pipe. It brought back memories of the days on the road with the company of Thorin Oakenshield, where a bunch of rowdy Dwarves would sing songs and tell stories well into the night.

Bilbo couldn’t have been asleep for very long when Gandalf shook him awake, his face lit only by moonlight and it was then that he realized that the fire had been extinguished.

“What’s going on?” he asked, as Gandalf dragged him to his feet.

“Pack up,” he hissed. “We’re being hunted.”

With his heart thudding against his ribs, Bilbo quickly packed his bed roll and blanket just before he was hefted onto the back of Gandalf’s horse, one of the wizard’s strong arms wrapping securely round his waist.

It was then that a high pitched scream pierced the silence and made goose bumps raise on Bilbo’s skin.

 

“Nazgul!” yelled Gandalf, tightening his hold on Bilbo. “Ride Arathorn, we make for Rivendell post haste.”

Another shriek rose into the air, and as one Arathorn and Gandalf kicked their horses into a gallop, Bilbo clinging to the saddle desperately.

“What do they want?” yelled Bilbo, glancing behind them as the burst from the trees and onto the plateau that led to Rivendell.

“You and your ring,” answered Gandalf. “You carry a great evil with you Bilbo Baggins.”

Bilbo’s heart seemed to freeze as with another scream the Nazgul upon its black war horse galloped out of the copse behind them. To his right Bilbo watched as Arathorn drew his sword.

“Arathorn,” called Gandalf. “You can not fight it.”

“No,” answered Arathorn. “But I can try.”

The Nazgul was bearing down on them, its mount faster than their ones. Gandalf’s horse was however quick to change its path and evade its pursuer. It was just as Arathorn was turning his horse around, sword raised in defiance, that a horn sounded.

“That is no Elvish horn,” said Arathorn.

It was ass if the sound of the horn had worried the Nazgul for it had pulled its horse to a stop.

“No that is a Gondor horn,” answered Gandalf.

There was the sound of fast moving hooves behind them, causing Gandalf to wheel his horse around to face the approaching riders. Men in heavy armour were riding fast towards them, they were numbered about fifty and made for a terrifying sight to behold. Three of them were carrying black banners with a white tree upon them.

With a final screech the Nazgul turned and galloped back into the trees, followed by several of the men.

“Men of Gondor,” said Arathorn, dismounting and approaching the man at the head of the group. “Your time was impeccable.”

Bilbo watched as the man removed his helmet, revealing a handsome face with brown hair which fell to his chin and a short cropped beard.

“Boromir,” said Gandalf. “What are you doing this far West?”

Boromir gave the muscular neck of his horse a fond pat. “We have business with Lord Elrond.”

“That is something we have in common,” said Gandalf. “How did you know we were in danger?”

“We passed through Rohan on the our way to Rivendell and heard talk of a dark rider making for the Shire,” answered Boromir. “We were coming to see what had been left of the Halflings.”

With that he gave Bilbo a nod of his head.

“The Shire,” gasped Bilbo, looking up at Gandalf. “We have to go back!”

“Oh I don’t think so my friend,” answered the wizard. “Your kin will be quite safe, we however are not.”

“Come,” said Boromir, gesturing for them to enter his ranks as they turned back towards Rivendell. “Where there is one Nazgul there are bound to be more.”


	9. Nathith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo finds out that Thorin is betrothed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is for MM8 who so wanted to know about Bilbo's child.
> 
> I really hope this chapter is up to expectations.
> 
> I am going to give a warning of talk of Post Partum Depression and non-explicit birth trauma.

Rivendell. Home of Lord Elrond and his elves, was just as beautiful on this spring afternoon as it had been the first time Bilbo had laid eyes upon it all those years ago. The last time he had visited this valley had been during the last summer, sneaking out of the Shire and trekking to the last homely home. As usual when he looked down on Rivendell he felt both fear and excitement settle in his stomach, and he had to work at not losing his meagre lunch on the thin path which led down to the valley.

Gandalf, for once, was silent and Bilbo was thankful for his quiet support. He was one of the very few who understood what had happened here in the birthing rooms of the Elves, had witnessed the Hobbit at his most vulnerable and clutching at the last threads of life. The fear was beginning to take control, making a cold sweat cover his skin and his hands to shake. Sometimes it could take as long as a week until Bilbo was ready to leave the room which Elrond had set aside for him, and venture into the heart of Rivendell. He knew however that he would not be able to hide himself away this time.

“Have strength Bilbo,” whispered Gandalf.

Twisting his fingers into the long grey sleeves of Gandalf’s cloak, Bilbo nodded and started with the breathing exercises Elrond had taught him to help with the overwhelming sense of panic which would overcome him from time to time. He had nothing to fear here, he knew that, what was past was past and could not hurt him now. Everyone had come through that traumatic time alive, if worst for wear, and he knew that he had to move on from it though he found it difficult.

“Mithrandir.” They had reached the main concourse of Rivendell, and Elrond was climbing down the stairs to meet them. “And the Royal Guard of Gondor if my eyes do not deceive me.”

“They do not,” answered Gandalf.

“Master Baggins.” Elrond helped him dismount the horse, and then rested one large hand on his shoulder whilst Gandalf climbed down from his mount. “It is good to see you again my friend.”

“And you Lord Elrond,” he answered, covering that large hand with his own.

“So what can I do for you and your guard?” asked Elrond, directing his question to Gandalf.

“I know not what the men of Gondor have come to discuss,” said Gandalf. “But I come to you about the Ring of Power and Mordor.”

“We come to speak of Mordor also,” said Boromir, and Bilbo watched as he jumped gracefully down from his horse.

“Very well,” said Elrond, squeezing Bilbo’s shoulder gently before stepping away and gesturing for Gandalf and Boromir to follow him into Rivendell.

The main meeting room of Rivendell was in one of the towers, exposed to the elements and with the most beautiful views of the valley. There was a white round table in the centre of the room with tall chairs, and Bilbo watched as Gandalf and Boromir sat down before taking a seat across from Lord Elrond.

“Now what word from Gondor?” asked Elrond.

Boromir sat forwards and rested his elbows on the table, tapping his index fingers against his lower lip.

“My father, Lord Denethor, wishes to march on Mordor,” he said.

“He what?” demanded Gandalf, slamming one hand on the table. “Has he lost what is left of his mind?”

He watched as Boromir flinched at this. “Probably. He has found a way to send my younger brother away and secure my right to rule, and he is determined to see the contract through.”

“And just who has contracted him to march upon Mordor?” asked Elrond. “And for what reason.”

“Dwarves,” answered Boromir.

Elrond raised one elegant eyebrow. “Dwarves have contracted Gondor to march on Mordor? Unless gold has been discovered in the Ered Lithui I can’t imagine that Dwarves would have anything to do with Mordor.”

“Its about Kili isn’t it?” asked Bilbo. “That’s why they want to go into Mordor.”

Boromir nodded his head. “The Halfling is correct. Prince Kili was taken from Mirkwood not three months past by Orcs of Mordor, they have requested a ransom but I do not know what it is.”

“It’s the one thing that Thorin would never give up,” answered Bilbo, glancing up at Gandalf. “The Arkenstone.”

Gandalf’s face darkened and he quickly looked at Elrond. “And so he shouldn’t, the Arkenstone would be too dangerous in the hands of Sauron.”

That seemed odd to Bilbo, he had believed the Arkenstone to just be a damned rock, a pretty one sure but still just a rock.

“It’s just a rock,” he said, only to frown when Gandalf shook his head.

“It is not just a rock Bilbo,” he said. “Not a rock at all.”

“And just how much of his treasury has Thorin parted with to have his Nephew returned?” asked Elrond.

“None,” answered Boromir. “Even though he was willing to give it all, my father wanted something a bit more … permanent.”

“Ah,” said Elrond quietly. “I got word not two days past that King Thorin was betrothed to a man of all things.”

At this words Bilbo felt his heart drop down into his stomach, his vision going blurry, and his breath coming in harsh pants. Thorin engaged? Had he been that easy to forget, so easy to replace even though Bilbo had been pining away in the Shire and never giving another so much as a second glance?

“Faramir,” Boromir was saying. “My brother.”

“Thorin is a fool,” said Gandalf. “But an honourable one. I suppose Faramir would have been executed should he return to Gondor?”

Bilbo found he could no longer sit there while those around the table talked about Thorin’s engagement, even in the case of Gandalf encouraging it. No it was all too much.

He got to his feet, his chair scraping on the ground as he pushed it back. “Please, excuse me.”

With that he scurried from the meeting room and to his own rooms, determined to lock himself in and cry the tears that he had been unable to find all those years ago.

\---

Boromir watched the Halfling leave as though he had another Nazgul behind him, and then took in the pitying looks of Gandalf and Lord Elrond.

“What?” he asked. “What is going on here?”

Elrond got gracefully to his feet at that, and gestured for Boromir to follow him.

“We shall discuss this ring later this evening Mithrandir,” he said. “The White Council are due to arrive by the morrow.”

“Very well,” answered Gandalf, also standing up. “I will go and make sure that Bilbo is alright.”

“Boromir,” said Elrond, holding out his arm. “Please follow me.”

Together they walked through the halls of Rivendell, with Elrond nodding in greeting at the elves they passed on the way through. Soon they came to the central courtyard which was a quadrangle of grass surrounded by trees and flowers. Here played two children, a boy of about eleven with shoulder length black hair and an easy smile, and an elvish girl with long dark hair and haunting grey eyes. The man Arathorn was sat on a bench smoking a pipe and laughing whenever the girl smacked the boy over the head with her wooden sword.

“He is growing strong,” said Arathorn, moving aside so that Boromir could sit beside him.

“Your son is going to be a great warrior,” said Elrond.

“Yes he is,” said Arathorn. “Though I think Arwen will surpass him.” He pointed towards the girl with his pipe. “Must be the Dwarvish blood in her.”

Boromir started at that and stared first at Arathorn and then Elrond. “She’s a Dwarrow? But she looks like an Elf.”

“Arwen there is the daughter of King Thorin the second,” said Elrond.

“Thorin bred with an Elf?” demanded Boromir.

The look on Elrond’s face was one of pure disgust. “No. Arwen is the product of a Dwarf and a Hobbit, it just so happens that she looks like an Elf. Her pointed ears, lack of beard, fairness of face, and delicate sensibilities come from her Hobbit kin. Whilst her fighting spirit, stature, and hair come from Thorin.”

“Does he know?” asked Boromir.

Elrond shook his head. “Nor shall he ever.”


	10. On a Bed of Warg Pelts.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sassy Faramir is sassy. Also Thorin is too old to be a sex god.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please please please forgive me. Faramir and Thorin are not going to be a happily ever after couple, but they are two men (Dwarves ... things) who think they'll never see their beloveds again and are trying to make the best of a bad situation. There is nothing explicit I promise and is the last time they have the chance to do such things.   
> Plus I needed this scene for the plot :)

Faramir collapsed against the furs which were piled on Thorin’s bed all of which, disturbingly, seemed to be Warg pelts. Also now that he was laying directly on top of them he could see that many of them were covered in holes made by arrows or axes.

“Did you have someone collect every Warg on the battlefield and turn them into your bedding?” he mused, pushing strands of his sweaty hair out of his eyes.

“Something like that,” answered Thorin, the strong hands grasping his hips tightened and there was a slight sting of pain and then the Dwarf King flopped onto his back beside him, his chest heaving for breath. “I’m too old for this.”

“Nonsense,” said Faramir, propping himself up on his elbow and placing a hand on Thorin’s hairy chest. He had been pleasantly surprised when Thorin had removed his ever present armour and tunic to reveal that he was thick with pure muscle rather than fat, and that all that muscle seemed to be covered with a veritable pelt of dark body hair. “You did valiantly.”

Thorin huffed in response. “You are far too young and I am far too old.”

Faramir wound a strand of the Dwarf’s chest hair around his finger and smiled when one blue eye was cracked open to look at him. “Tell me about him.”

“What?” asked Thorin.

“Your beloved,” he answered. “You’ve met mine, I feel at a disadvantage.”

Those thick brows furrowed and Faramir found himself being glared at, he didn’t falter though and returned it with a smile.

“He’s very brave,” he answered with a deep sigh.

“Well he would have to be,” said Faramir, giving a chuckle when Thorin batted at him. “Go on.”

“He’s brave despite having lived a sheltered and comfortable life.” Thorin’s fingers curled around the braid in Faramir’s hair and dragged him down to lie against his chest. “So very unlike a Dwarrow. He’s well read and an excellent cook.”

“I would very much like to meet him,” said Faramir.

Thick fingers carded through his hair. “I wish you could meet him.”

“Maybe one day I will,” he answered, suddenly there was a loud tapping noise from the only window in the King’s apartments. “What’s that?”

Thorin gave a deep groan and those fingers tightened in his hair almost possessively, before relaxing and the Dwarf slid out of the bed and walked towards the window as bare as the day he was born. He pulled open the window and there sat a huge black raven, a roll of parchment attached to its leg which it stuck out for Thorin to untie the message.

“Thank you,” he said, taking a piece of dried meat from a container on the windowsill and giving it to the raven.

Faramir watched as he placed the parchment on his desk, and then disappeared into his dressing room to return wearing a clean tunic. He slowly unrolled the parchment and began reading it.

“And what of your nephew? The one that all this is in aid of?” he asked.

“He reminds me …” Thorin looked up from the parchment with a stricken look on his face. “He reminds me of you actually.”

Faramir couldn’t help but laugh at that. “Then he must be a very special Dwarf indeed.”

“Yes,” answered Thorin, returning to his parchment. “And let us never talk about that again.”

“Should I return to my rooms?” he asked, preparing to get of the bed and leave the King in peace.

“No,” answered Thorin, shaking his head. “I need to meet with Balin immediately.” He strode over to where Faramir was reclining against the pillows and pressed a kiss to his lips which Faramir deepened into a languid affair which caused a slow curl of arousal in the pit of his stomach. “You sleep here tonight.”

Faramir was half tempted to grab him by the beard and drag him back into bed, there was something erotic about knowing that it wasn’t just Boromir that desired him, even if it was only his body that Thorin found attractive. “You just like the idea of me naked in your bed.”

The Dwarf hummed at him, kissed his temple and then walked from the room, leaving Faramir to snuggled beneath the Warg pelts and let his body succumb to the aches and exhaustion that comes after a passionate encounter.

He awoke many hours later to find that Thorin had brought Balin with him, and Faramir quickly made sure that all of his vital parts were covered by the bedding and his face burnt with embarrassment.

“Didn’t waste any time did you laddie?” asked Balin, his eyes twinkling with amusement as he looked at his King.

“Balin …” began Thorin.

“No need to explain,” said Balin, patting him on the arm. “He is rather fair, for a human that is, at least they can grow beards.”

Faramir immediately placed his hand against his chin and felt the prickliness of a few days beard growth, he really needed to go to Dale and find something to shave with.

“What can I do for you?” he asked, sitting up against the pillows.

Balin left his Kings side and moved to sit beside him on the bed. “How do you fancy speaking for Erebor at a delegation in Rivendell?”

“Me?” he asked, looking from one Dwarf to the other in surprise. “But I have only been here a fortnight, I know very little of this Kingdom nor its people.”

“Balin will be going with you,” said Thorin. “Though I need someone who can be around the Elves without wanting to throw all of them into the river. I also need someone who can speak for us with Gondor.”

“Gondor?” he asked. “Gondor are sending representatives?”

“Yes of course,” said Thorin. “It is a meeting about Mordor and how that threat should be faced, and how my sister-son shall be returned to his betrothed. Denethor has sent his eldest to speak for him.”

It was at that moment he understood exactly what Thorin was asking and offering.

“Boromir,” he said. “I’ll see Boromir again?”

Balin nodded and a smile broke out on his withered face. “It’s a three week ride if we go through the gap of Rohan and ride swiftly, so we must leave as soon as possible.”

“I am sending Dwalin and some of the Guard with you,” said Thorin. “I will not see either of you injured or captured. Now go and pack.”


	11. Mines of Mordor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For seventy-eight years there have been Dwarves mining in the Shadow Mountains as 'guests' of Mordor. Never have they encountered anything like Kili.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is just a little (about 900 words) chapter about Kili and how he's doing in Mordor.  
> It has taken me over two days to get this down, I've found writing this chapter the most difficult thing I have done so far in this story and I'm not entirely sure why. And I'm really really not happy with it but its the best of the seven I've written so far.

Vili son of Peli, had been a ‘guest’ of Mordor for nearly seventy-eight years now. He had been taken from the gates of Moria after the battle of Azanulbizar with roughly three hundred other Dwarves, and marched to Nargun whilst his father and brother-in-law were trying to rally what was left of their armies.

They had been forced to work in the iron mines in the Shadow Mountains ever since, their ranks swelling with new Dwarrows that had been captured and even those born in the dark. Held by the point of a sword or the crack of a whip, they dug deep and mined iron, tin, and copper to be used in the weapons and armour of the Orcs. Over the years there had been several rebellions and escape attempts though none had been successful and had ended in much pain and suffering for all.

The newest arrival to the mines was a young Dwarrow, so young in fact that he only had a scruff of a beard and only two braids in his long dark hair. One of the braids was thick and fell behind his ear to be held securely by a large silver clasp, a braid of war. The other was slimmer and fell from his left temple with a bright blue bead at the end, a betrothal braid and the boy was bound to a member of his family if the placement was anything to go on. He was attractive in a youthful kind of way, as lithe as an elf and with an easy smile despite their situation. Whenever anyone asked his name and lineage he would just shake his head, dark eyes flicking to the Orcs holding them captive, and it didn’t take long for Vili to realize that he didn’t want those vile beasts to know his identity.

Someone important then, mused Vili, could be some son of a Lord from the Iron Hills afraid he would be used for ransom. Vili would have told him that it was useless, that the Orcs knew who each and every one of them was down to their lineage.

He found himself keeping a close eye on the boy, though never actually getting close enough to strike up a conversation with him or fall into his gaze. He watched though, watched as he held a pick axe uselessly in his hand for what was quite clearly the first time, and how it became more and more obvious as time went on that he had never even been in a mine before. Definitely the son of some two-bit Lord then, though he wasn’t as full of airs and graces as those he had met before, and he had had his fair share of Royalty in the past.

Shaking his once golden hair, now black with soot and dust, from his eyes Vili continued to hack at the unforgiving stone in front of him, it was always best not to dwell on those particular memories if he could help it.

Suddenly a loud cry went up from further down the passageway, and Vili looked up to see that the boy had gotten into a fist fight with Brenia one of the older Dwarves down here in the mines. He wasn’t sure what had been said or what had set them off at each other, but he did know that they didn’t want the guards to see what was happening. Dropping his pick axe, he strode over to where they were fighting and without a single word grabbed the boy by the back of his tunic and began dragging him away from the old warrior.

“Shut up boy and come with me,” he hissed, feeling the fight go out of the slender body immediately. “What in Mahal’s name did you say to Brenia that got him in such a foul mood?”

“He called me an elf,” came the sullen answer, and Vili pushed him into one of the sleeping alcoves and followed him in.

“He did what?” he demanded, ripping a piece of bedding off the pallet and holding it to the boys bleeding nose.

“Called me an elf.”

Not this insanity again.

“Do you mean to tell me that that old fight is still going on?” he demanded. “I had hoped that in the past seven decades we Dwarves might have gotten over that old resentment.”

The boy shook his head, dark strands of hair falling into his eyes. “In that respect nothing has changed. My Uncle would kill them all on sight if it wouldn’t cause a diplomatic mess.”

Vili snorted in amusement at that. “Yes well I know a few stubborn ones like that as well.”

There was that smile again, the one which lit up his entire face and for some reason reminded him of his beloved Dis. Lifting the rag from the boy’s face he was pleased to see the bleeding had stopped.

“Now git gone,” he said, pointing over his shoulder back out to the mines. “And no more fighting alright?”

The boy gave him another cheeky grin and then scuttled out of the alcove leaving Vili feeling like he had just come up against a force of nature itself.


	12. The White Council

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The White Council is called. The true power of the Arkenstone is revealed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So much research went into this chapter, and I'll be honest in saying I am useless at research. 
> 
> There was a lot of rewriting with this chapter as I tried my hand at each of the Council members POV but I just couldn't get into their mindset, then in the course of my research I came across this gem of a character.
> 
> I'll be honest in saying I am not very good at writing these kind of scenes at all, I am an erotica writer at heart and I'm finding all of this rather difficult. 
> 
> Thank you all so much for the kudos and reviews I honestly did not think that my little un-beta'd fic would get such an amazing reception, and you've all filled me with such joy thus far. I hope that you will stick with me through this adventure through both Middle Earth and writing.

Cirdan the Shipwright had been a part of the White Council since the early First Age, yet he had never been called to Rivendell under such dire circumstances. He smoothed down his long blonde beard with one hand, whilst the other tapped his fingers against the polished white wood of the meeting table. Elrond’s two boys were standing at the back of the room, their eyes full of curiosity as they stared at him unabashedly.

He knew that he tended to cause a scene whenever he left Mithlond and ventured into the heart of Middle Earth. There were very few who had seen an Elf with a beard, let alone one with the breadth and musculature that he himself possessed.

“Ah my friend.” Cirdan turned as Elrond entered the room, his long cape floating out behind him and a smile on his fair face. “I am glad you could make it.”

“The White Council was called,” he answered, standing and accepting Elrond’s kiss of greeting. “And so I came.”

With that Elrond held out his arm and gestured for somebody behind him to come forward. There was a shuffling noise and a Hobbit, a Halfling, walked into the Meeting Room. Cirdan was familiar with these little creatures, the Grey Havens were close to The Shire, and Hobbits would often come to the coast for summer holidays. This particular one looked to be in his early middle age, with a shock of curly golden hair and sad looking brown eyes. All in all he was a picture of dejection and radiating heartbreak on every level, something which Cirdan was well versed in.

“And who is this?” he asked, smiling kindly at the Hobbit.

“Bilbo,” he answered. “Bilbo Baggins my Lord.”

Baggins, well that was a common name amongst the Halflings and if he wasn’t wrong this particular one was part Took, a family line he was very fond of.

“You seem sad Mister Baggins,” he said, pulling out one of the chairs for Bilbo to sit down.

“I am … fine,” he answered, though he looked at the table as he said it.

There was definitely a story of lost love in this Hobbit’s recent past, and Cirdan was sure that he would help him through it someway.

It didn’t take long for the rest of the Council to arrive, Mithrandir and Curunir sitting across from each other at the table and glancing dark looks in each other’s direction. Galadriel as per usual was stood at the window, her white sheer dress swirling elegantly around her ankles, she reminded him so much of his beloved that it made his heart ache in loss.

“Why do you call us here Gandalf?” demanded Curunir, his arms folded across his chest. “It had better not be this foolishness about the Ring of Power again.”

Mithrandir scowled at that. “The Ring of Power has been found.”

At that Cirdan sat straighter in his chair and immediately began spinning Narya around his ring finger, a nervous tick he had picked up from Gil-galad many millennia ago.

“And what has become of it?” he asked.

“Bilbo is the Ring bearer,” said Galadriel, from where she had remained silent so far.

“Bilbo,” said Elrond, placing his hand on the table. “Please show us the Ring.”

The Hobbit nodded though it took quite some time until he finally removed the small band of gold from his pocket, and his eyes shifted anxiously around all those gathered before he placed it on the table. Immediately Cirdan knew that what Mithrandir spoke was the truth, and that this was the Ring of Power and it was something that he hadn’t seen since the last Age when Isilduir had been inside that cursed mountain.

“Sauron will surely come for this,” said Curunir. “It is not safe here Lord Elrond.”

“He has already sent Orcs and a Nazgul to The Shire to reclaim it,” answered Mithrandir. “However his Eye and thoughts rest elsewhere.”

“And where would that be?” demanded Curunir.

“In Erebor,” answered Galadriel, slowly walking towards the table but ignoring the Ring altogether. “And with the Arkenstone.”

Ah, thought Cirdan, he has discovered what that gem truly is then.

“Why?” asked Bilbo, looking around at them with a confused look on his face. “What is so special about the Arkenstone?”

“The Arkenstone may be called the heart of the mountain to the Dwarves, but to us Elves and the Maiar it is known as Aule’s heart,” answered Elrond, smiling kindly at Bilbo. “It is what he gifted Yavanna when she agreed to be his betrothed.”

“What it is my dear Hobbit,” said Cirdan, looking down on the small creature at his side. “Is the very power of a Vala, he gave his beloved his very strength within that stone as a symbol of his love. Then he gave it to the Dwarves, his most favourite of children to keep safe in his absence.”

“Oh,” answered Bilbo, wringing his hands together. “Is that why …”

Here his voice trailed off and his eyes filled with tears.

“Yes,” answered Mithrandir. “The gold sickness, the curse of Durin’s line, though I am sure that Aule was not aware that it would have this affect when he gave it to them.”

Bilbo nodded.

“So what must be done?” he asked.

Cirdan caught Galadriel’s eye and she nodded and gave him a half smile.

“The Ring must be destroyed,” he answered, placing a gentle hand on the Hobbit’s shoulder. “Sauron must not get his hands on the Arkenstone, all of that power must not be released upon this world or all will be destroyed.”

“How do we destroy it?” asked Bilbo.

“It must be tossed into the fires in whence it was made,” said Elrond. “The fires of Mount Doom in the darkness of Mordor, its destruction will cause Sauron to be exiled from these lands and his reach to be diminished.”

“Very well,” answered Bilbo, wiping his tears away with the back of his hand. “How do I get to Mordor?”


	13. Letters from the Lonely Mountain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two Hobbits discover Bilbo's secret, and set out on their own adventure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting this chapter because it had already been written. In actual truth I am no longer sure about this story or that my writing is doing it or the fandom any justice. So I may be going on indefinite hiatus (I'm going to see how my writing over the next couple of days goes),  
> Thank you for everyone's kindness during the writing of this.

Primula Brandybuck, soon to be Baggins, felt like she had been scrubbing black blood out of the huge rug that sat before the study fire of Bag End for the past month since Bilbo had disappeared. The Orc bodies had long since been removed and burnt, yet she wanted all traces of the horrid things gone by the time Bilbo came home. And he _was_ coming home and she didn’t care what the other Brandybuck’s were saying about him having been eaten or killed and dragged away, she knew that he was alive and would be returning to The Shire. She had always adored him, sure that she would marry him one day despite him being her cousin on her mother’s side, well that was until Drogo had made himself known anyway.

“Might as well throw it out Prim.” The voice made her groan and roll her eyes at the poor rug, she had hoped for a day of peace. “You’ll never get rid of that awful stuff.”

“Thank you for your advice Lobelia,” she answered, continuing to scrub at the rug. “But I think Bilbo would prefer to have everything just the way it was before.”

Lobelia snorted at that, and Primula watched from the corner of her eye as she walked around the rug towards Bilbo’s desk.

“He’s not coming back,” she said, shaking her long curly hair behind her shoulder. “Don’t be daft.”

“I am not being daft.” She sat back on her knees, and bunched her fists into her waist when she saw that Lobelia was going through the papers on the desk. “And leave his things alone you wrench.”

Lobelia merely huffed and continued to rifle through the papers. “Just because you’re marrying Drogo doesn’t mean you’re the mistress of Bag End.”

“And you are just jealous that Otho won’t give you the time of day,” answered Primula, standing up and coming to Lobelia’s side. “What are you looking at?”

She was holding an envelope with a bright red seal in one hand, though it bore no name nor address, and in her other had was held a piece of parchment with writing of fine penmanship upon it. On the edge of the parchment were watermarks, as though Bilbo had been crying when he was reading it and immediately her heart clenched in sympathy for him.

“It’s a love letter … of sorts,” answered Lobelia. “Though a cave Troll could probably write one with more emotion.”

A love letter? For Bilbo? It seemed entirely unlikely but then Lobelia wasn’t one for lying despite all her flaws.

“Whose it from?” she asked, trying to read it over the taller woman’s shoulder.

“Somebody who called himself King Under the Mountain,” Lobelia sniffed, handing the letter to her. “Whatever that means.”

“I suppose it means he’s the King under some mountain or other,” she answered, and then began to read the letter.

 _My Dearest Bilbo_ [it read]

_It has been two years hence since you left my side, and I have ached for you every day since our parting. I know not why you haven’t replied to any of my letters and I can only hope that you are alive and well in your little Hobbit Hole, though I wish that you would let me know of your well-being. If I could have left this blasted mountain to come and return you home I would have done, however Balin informs me that this is impossible as my reign is tumultuous at best._

_My Nephew’s wish for me to inform you that they are betrothed, to each other no less, and they refuse to be wed until you are there for the wedding. So you see you must come back for the good of our people._

_Please reply_

_Yours forever._

_Thorin II_

_King Under the Mountain._

Lobelia was correct in saying that it wasn’t the most romantic of letters that had ever been penned, though clearly it had been heartfelt and Primula couldn’t fault the writer in that.

“Yes but which mountain?” demanded Lobelia. “The nearest Mountains are the Ered Luin and I doubt they have a King.”

Nodding absently, Primula was placing the letter back on the desk when something underneath the heaping papers caught her eye. It was a picture frame, one without glass, and she quickly dug it out. In the frame was a piece of frayed and stained parchment, and on it was a picture of a mountain with a large red dragon drawn above. Surrounding the picture were runes, Khuzdul she guessed, and then in Westron was written …

“The lonely mountain,” she said, tracing the writing with her finger. “I wonder if that’s the mountain?”

“More than likely,” answered Lobelia, she grabbed one of the maps Bilbo kept beside his desk. “Wonder where it is?”

They poured over the map, unable to find anything that looked like it could even resemble the lonely mountain to the west of the Misty Mountains. However something to the far North-East caught Primula’s eye, and she leaned closer to get a look.

“Erebor,” she read, nudging Lobelia with her elbow. “I wonder if that could be it.”

“Probably,” answered Lobelia with a nod. “That a Dwarvish Kingdom, and its well known that Bilbo went running off with Dwarves.”

Well that settled it then, either Bilbo had run back to his King in this Erebor or he had been taken by Orcs, if it was the latter who better than a Dwarf King to find and rescue him. Almost as if Bilbo was the heroine in one of Ruby Bolger’s stories.

“Well lets go then,” she said, smiling at Lobelia’s wide eyed stare.

“Go where?” she hissed, hands on hips. “You can’t mean Erebor surely?”

“Of course I mean Erebor,” answered Primula. “Someone needs to tell this King Under the Mountain that Bilbo is missing.”

“Send a letter,” said Lobelia. “You’ll never survive the journey.”

“We … since you’re coming with me.” Primula patted her friend on the shoulder. “And of course we’ll survive.”


	14. Mothers and Braids

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fili misses Kili so much his braids have been neglected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is my smallest chapter yet, around the 500 word mark. I just really wanted to write a little scene from Fili's point of view about how he's handling his brother's disappearance. 
> 
> Not quite out of funk yet but getting there, holiday stress is starting to get me down plus my original novel has just gone to beta and I'm nervous about the feedback.

Fili had never been any good at doing his own braids, his mother had done them when he was a Dwarfling and then Kili, when his little fingers had enough strength in them. Since Kili had disappear their mother was once again doing the braids in his hair however the ones in his beard, which only his beloved was allowed to touch, were looking dowdy and loose. A lesser Dwarf than he would probably remove them and just comb their beard straight, Fili however refused to give up on Kili that easily.

He had wanted to chase down those Orcs and get his brother and betrothed back, however Uncle had insisted that he remain safely in Erebor and that he not lose both his heirs in such a way. It hurt his heart to admit it, but Thorin was right ultimately the future of Erebor was more important, plus his Uncle was sacrificing so much to try and get Kili.

“Stop moving your head.” His mother’s strong hands gripped both sides of his head and held it steady. “Or your braids are going to be uneven.”

He found himself frowning at that. “Nobody is going to care if I have uneven braids mother.”

She tugged on one of his braids, and he hissed as it pulled against his scalp.

“Your Uncle will care,” she answered, finishing one braid and starting on another. “And so should you.”

Once again she was right, it was open court today which was something which Thorin had been putting off since Kili disappeared. However he could only stop it for too long, the everyday running of Erebor had to continue even now, they were to recently reclaimed to alienate the Dwarves who were still flowing in from Ered Luin and the other places that had been settled.

“Kili never cared,” he muttered, and he heard his mother chuckle from behind him.

“Your brother never wore a single braid in his hair until that blasted battle,” she said. “Then again he was waiting for you to place a betrothal braid in that unruly thatch he calls hair.”

Fili couldn’t help laughing at that, Kili’s hair was unruly at best and had a way of becoming knotted and twisted. It also looked incredible spread out across his pillow after they had made love and Kili was telling him dirty jokes. Those memories made him have to swallow around the lump in his throat.

“I miss him Amad," he whispered, just as the last braid was being finished.

“I know you do,” she answered, wrapping her arms around him in a hug. “You will never ever stop missing him.”


	15. Wisp

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gimli and Legolas come across many dangers in the depths of Mirkwood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess which Pixar movie I was watching while writing this.

“Do not follow the lights.” Legolas placed a hand on Gimli’s shoulder, holding the young Dwarf back. “They lead travellers to their deaths.”

Gimli found himself looking up at the Elf in horror, before turning back to look at the small wisps of blue light darting through the trees. He had noticed them far off in the distance for a few days now, though it seemed like they had caught up with them at last.

“What are they?” he demanded, shrugging off the hand on his shoulder and hefting his axe into both hands. “And can they be killed?”

Shaking his head, Legolas pushed the axe down and Gimli grunted at him angrily, damn Elf trying to stop him being able to defend himself. There was no wonder his kinsmen didn’t trust the disturbingly good looking creatures as far as they could throw them.

“No Elf has ever tried,” answered Legolas. “Or as far as I know none have anyway.”

That didn’t mean anything to Gimli, just because an Elf hadn’t been able to shoot one of these things with one of their particularly poncy arrows didn’t mean that a good Dwarvish axe wouldn’t do the job.

“Well let’s see then.” Gimli began to stride forwards to where the nearest wisp of light was floating above the path.

“No!” Legolas’s voice was not just demanding but also tinged with panic, and it was that which made him halt and turn back to his companion. “Please do not.”

Gimli scowled at him. “Don’t fear Master Elf.” He patted his axe fondly. “I’ll just do away with ‘em and then we can continue on.”

“Please.” Legolas reached out a hand as if to grab him. “Please do not, or you shall surely die.”

Rolling his eyes Gimli approached his companion. “Is this some Elf superstition.”

“My father told me.” Legolas paused and closed his eyes as if in great pain. “He told me that this was how my mother died.”

“Well that’s odd,” answered Gimli, glancing back at the happily dancing wisps.

“What?” asked Legolas, gripping his forearm tightly.

“Well it’s been passed down from Durin himself,” he said, with a shrug. “That Thrandiul carried and bore you himself.”

Legolas’s pale grey eyes widened in shock.

“This isn’t somethin’ you’ve heard before?” asked Gimli.

“Well no,” answered Legolas. “I don’t think anyone would dare say such a thing against my father.”

Well the lad did have a point there, the Elf King was a particularly terrifying seeming creature, and if the stories his father and uncle had told him were true he was dangerous as well. He could easily imagine that Elf heads would roll if anyone started gossiping about him.

“Well either way we have to get passed these things,” answered Gimli. “So what do you suggest?”

He watched as Legolas looked all around them, his gaze finally settling on the nearest tree. “We could climb over them.”

“No.” Gimli shook his head. “I will not be climbing any trees.”

“And why not?” demanded the Elf. “It seems our only way through at this point.”

Gimli would not accept that, ever, he was not climbing up some tree and humiliating himself in front of the Prince of Mirkwood, though he supposed they should really be called it Greenwood again.

“There has to be another way,” he said, standing firm before the lithe Elf.

“There is not,” answered Legolas. “Now get up that tree.”

Gimli had just opened his mouth to argue that he was not getting up that tree and his Elf companion needed to keep his knickers on, when a high pitched scream went up through the trees, and as one the wisps flickered out.

“What was that?” asked Gimli, noticing that Legolas almost looked sickly. “What is it laddie?”

“Nazgul,” whispered Legolas, pushing him towards the tree. “Get up now.”

“Nazgul?” answered Gimli, starting to climb despite himself. “Do you mean a Ringwraith?”

“Yes,” hissed Legolas, pushing Gimli up further before swinging himself into the tree. “Now be quiet.”

Together they crouched amongst the branches of the tree, and for a very long time nothing seemed to happen at all. Then, just as Gimli was about to climb back down from the tree and continue down the path, there was the sound of hooves on the compact ground which made up the path. Immediately Legolas’s hand covered his and gripped tight, and don’t tell his kin but he found himself gripping back just as fiercely. This could very easily be his last moments in this world before passing to the halls of his ancestors, and he would not leave with hateful thoughts in his head.

A huge black horse with a black cloaked figure atop it appeared on the path moving swiftly towards the west, so at least he was not travelling to Erebor. Though why would a Ringwraith be travelling to the kindly west? It soon disappeared amongst the trees and slowly the forest came back to life around them.

“Come,” whispered Legolas. “We must keep moving if we have any hope of reaching the Elvish outpost before nightfall.”

“The oddest thing,” answered Gimli. “I don’t much feel like getting out of this tree.”

Legolas squeezed his hand. “Do not fear, for I will not let you fall.”


	16. Musings of a King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin's considers all that has gone on in his Kingdom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little chapter from Thorin's POV about Bilbo and the disappearance of Kili. Its just to give him a bit more depth and understanding of the various relationships here.
> 
> There's also a line in here that immediately after writing it I had massive inspiration for another plot twist ... so watch this space.

Thorin often found nights in Erebor cold and lonely, something which he once would never have dared to think about his Grandfathers lost Kingdom. However in the solitude of his private apartments, while sifting through paperwork at his father’s old desk he often found the loneliness weighing down on him, as if the very mountain itself felt alone. Oh how he missed Bilbo at these times, he could almost imagine the Hobbit sitting in the large armchair by the marble fireplace with the flames lighting his hair whilst he read a book of flowery Elvish poetry. He would give everything, each and every piece of gold in the treasury if he had to, to make that image become real. It was a dream though and nothing else, for Bilbo would never be able to forgive him, and rightly so.

He had written so many letters over the years, one every month in fact, with Coac. Some had been returned unopened, some returned opened, some not returned, and the latest one had simply had _Please leave me alone_ written on the back of it in Bilbo’s neat writing. That had been the one which had shattered what little had been left of his heart, and turned that particular organ into ice. It wasn’t fair on Faramir that he was going to be stuck with a husband who was never going to love him, who no longer had the ability to love. Sure he was in love with his brother, something which he had witnessed personally with his nephews, but from what Thorin understood Boromir was already married with at least one son. It seemed that the youngest son of Denethor didn’t have a loving future really with anyone, and that was a tragedy.

Faramir had left earlier that day, riding for Rivendell with Dwalin and Balin so as to put Erebor’s point forward when it came to Mordor. He himself would have gone if it his rule wasn’t so fragile after all he had no issues with Dis taking the throne in his absence, Fili was not mentally able right now with Kili still missing, but there were many who thought him weak and wanted his cousin Dain there instead. He was not leaving his sister and heir vulnerable whilst he went traipsing halfway across Middle Earth. No he needed to be here for his family.

His family. That included Kili, his second sister-son and the love of his heir. Even though he had crowned Fili as Prince, it was well known that Kili was his favourite, after all who couldn’t fall in love with the tenacious little Dwarfling? He had always been so brave and mischievous despite his relatively sheltered upbringing, wanting to chase after his uncle and older brother whenever they went hunting. Fili hadn’t been able to resist him since the day Kili had been placed in his arms as a wiggling newborn, and Thorin had had the pleasure of watching their relationship blossom. They had been inseparable since Kili had been able to toddle, and seeing his eldest nephew in such a state of depression made him want to smash things in grief. Fili was lost, completely and utterly lost, and it was starting to get the whole of Erebor down.

Putting his elbows on the desk, Thorin let his head rest in his hands and gave several deep breaths. It was all too much really, his Grandfather had never had to put up with any of this during his reign. Oh sure there had been that whole issue with the gold sickness, and then the dragon, and of course being decapitated by Azog … but to watch the slow demise of someone he held so dear, it’s enough to drive a Dwarf to madness.

They had to find Kili and bring him home, there was just no other option.


	17. A Prince in the Darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vili discovers there are two Princes beneath the Mountains of Shadow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This did not turn out how I had planned ... doesn't matter I still like it.

There was a Prince beneath the Mountains of Shadow, or at least that’s what the rumours said, not that this was new to Vili. There had been a Prince in these mines for nigh on seventy eight years, not that many knew about it, after all Frerin son of Thrain was assumed dead when Smaug took Erebor. It was only Vili who knew that the young Prince had been planning on running as far as possible when the mountain had been lost, having known that there was something terribly wrong with Thror, however when he discovered the plot to take back Moria he had not been able to leave his brother to die. Vili could not fault him for that.

“It has to be the new arrival,” said Vili, poking half-heartedly at his piece of bread. “Since nobody has recognized you yet, especially with the beard.”

Frerin grinned at that and stroked his long black beard. “It is magnificent isn’t it?”

Rolling his eyes Vili took a bite of his bread. “Yes, all the Dwarrowdams will be all over you when we get out of this place.”

That seemed to content the Prince, and he tucked into his own meal with vigour. “But if he’s a Prince that begs the question. Prince of where exactly?”

Frerin shrugged. “Iron Hills?”

“But Dain doesn’t have a wife,” answered Vili. “Nor does the lad look anything like him.”

“Aye,” answered Frerin. “He looks more like a Durin than Dain could ever hope to be.”

There was that. The boy had the dark features of a Durin that was for sure, and even his slow growing beard was a trait of that particular line. So a Durin, well there was only one left in that direct lineage …

“So Thorin had a son then?” he mused, glancing up at where the boy was happily eating the last of his gruel and laughing at the frankly filthy jokes Karo was telling. “I suppose he’d have been able to charm one of the widowers.”

Frerin all but snorted his gruel out of his nose at that. “No. No I don’t think so.”

“What?” demanded Vili. “Why? Don’t you think that your brother would be able to find a suitable mate?”

“Of course I think he could find a suitable mate,” answered Frerin, pointing his spoon at Vili. “Just he ain’t attracted to Dwarrowdams is all.”

That seemed usual to Vili, he had only ever loved and found the form of one appealing and that had been Frerin’s sister Dis. And while he didn’t expect Thorin to mate with his sister, even though it wasn’t unheard of, he couldn’t imagine anyone not wanting the rangy figure of Dwarrowdam in their bed nor heart.

“Don’t tell me …” He swallowed thickly. “ … that he likes human women?”

“Oh for Mahal’s sake!” exclaimed Frerin. “He fucks men!”

He spoke so loud that his voice echoed around the chamber, and all the Dwarves therein went silent and stared at them. Suddenly, within the awkward silence, there was the sound of a single loud guffaw and as they watched the boy toppled backwards off the rock he had been sitting on in peals of laughter. It was as if this released a flood of tension and immediately the other Dwarves started chuckling and smacking each other on the back in good hearted cheer. This was something that Vili hadn’t seen in a very long time, and he found that he wanted to get to know this youngling who could make these battle hardened old slaves laugh.

“I’m going to ask him,” he said, standing up amongst the laughter.

“Just leave it alone,” said Frerin, reaching up to grab his wrist. “If he wishes to have his privacy then we should grant it.”

Vili simply should off his grasp and headed towards where the lad was righting himself back onto his rock, he just had to know who he was.

“ ‘ello,” he said, as Vili approached. “You and your friend know how to cause a scene.”

“Not as much as you,” answered Vili, shuffling aside when Frerin joined them. “Princeling.”

That caused him to sit up straight and glance around, though there where none close enough to hear their conversation.

“How did you know?” he hissed.

“There are rumours that there is a Prince in our midst.” Vili glanced sideways at Frerin. “Well another one.”

The boy’s eyes widened at that and he started at Frerin in shock.

“And it’s not hard to pick a Durin out of a crowd.” Frerin shrugged and stroked his beard. “I should know.”

“Frerin shut it,” said Vili, nudging the other Dwarf.

“Frerin,” said the boy wealky. “You’re Frerin, as in Frerin from Erebor?”

“Aye,” he answered.

“And that leaves the question lad,” said Vili. “Who exactly are you?”

He looked between the two of them, and then twisted his betrothal braid around his index finger. “Kili … Kili son of Vili at your service.”


	18. A Man Amongst Dwarves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dwalin, Balin, and Faramir reach Rivendell

In the end it took nearly a month and a half to reach Rivendell, for they found many an Orc pack along their journey and Balin had taken a sword to the leg when they had reached the Gap of Rohan. It hadn’t slowed down the old warrior much at all though, even when the wound developed an infection and they found themselves doubling back to Edoras to receive treatment. However once through the Gap they had travelled along the Old South Road with very little trouble, and once on Lord Elrond’s lands there hadn’t been so much as a whiff of a Warg.

Dwalin found that he quite liked Thorin’s betrothed. He was young and pretty, which was a given since he was to marry a King, but he also had a quick wit and was a good fighter as well. He just couldn’t understand how a father would have such contempt for his son that he would send him away to another Kingdom without a second thought. Also from what his brother had said it seemed as though the boy was expected to never return to his homelands again, that at least was something that Dwalin understood.

This time arriving at Rivendell was certainly less eventful than the first time they had come to the hidden valley. Instead of being chased by orcs into a secret passage, they entered by the main road with their ponies, or in Faramir’s case horse, taking the bridge to the grand entrance slowly.

Lord Elrond was waiting for them, a smile on his overly smug face as he descended the steps.

“Master Dwarves,” he said, eyes darting between himself and Balin before settling on Faramir. “And a man, Lord Denethor’s son if I’m not mistaken.”

“That is correct,” answered Faramir, stepping forwards and bowing.

“What is a child of Gondor doing traveling with Dwarves from Erebor?” asked Elrond.

“Like you don’t know,” answered Dwalin, shouldering his axe and pushing in front of Faramir. “Like ye’ haven’t heard.”

Elrond raised one eyebrow. “I know of his engagement Dwalin son Fundin, however I do not know why he allowed his consort-to-be to roam half way across Middle Earth.”

Dwalin glanced over at his brother, who was just scowling at the elf.

“The King wanted me to be able to speak for Erebor to the elves,” said Faramir, ignoring the elbow that Dwalin pushed into his stomach. “When his kin …”

Here he trailed off, but Dwalin knew that he meant to say that they would probably end up insulting the elves rather than gaining their aid. It had been a moment of genius really on Thorin’s part that he had sent his young betrothed to Rivendell, Faramir’s frankly soothing presence would certainly get the pointy eared bastards on side.

“Dwalin!” Gandalf’s voice echoed through the valley and the wizard appeared behind Elrond on the stairs. “Balin. You made it safely then.”

“Gandalf.” Faramir hurried forwards and quickly embraced the old man. “Oh I am happy to see you.”

“And I you,” answered Gandalf. “Oh my dear boy you’ve got yourself into quite the bind haven’t you?”

“Everything is happening so fast.” Dwalin heard him whisper. “And I don’t know how to slow it down.”

Gandalf patted him on the shoulder. “Everything will work out, of that I am sure.”

There was the sound of shuffling feet, and glancing away from Gandalf and Faramir, Dwalin caught sight of Bilbo Baggins standing at the top of the stairs.


	19. The Ranger of Bree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Primula and Lobelia get an escort to Erebor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a while there I actually lost inspiration for this story, then today I bought myself a new notepad and a heap of pens and this was the result.
> 
> I could honestly write a whole story based on these gals alone.
> 
> My updates on this story may not be as often as they have been because I am now also working on Emùlhêkh, however I promise that I'll be able to get a couple of chapters a week done.

Prim awoke to find that Lobelia was clinging to her like a vine in her sleep, ridiculously long and skinny limbs wrapped so tightly around her that she was finding it difficult to breath. It was awkward to say the least, and not just in a physically uncomfortable way, but also because Lobelia's rather comely bosom was pressed into her left shoulder. Swallowing down the Took side of her which was inflaming her loins, she thought of her beloved Drogo and promptly untangled herself and climbed out of the bed. Outside rain had descended on the town of Bree, turning the roads to mush and making the people hurry around with their oilskins pulled over their heads. Thankfully it wasn't too cold and she was able to get dressed quickly despite the fact that the fire was nothing more than a few embers on the hearth. Splashing water on her face, she forced her curls into a tight ponytail at the back of her neck.

 

She smoothed down her dress as she made her way downstairs, horrified at how many wrinkles had creased the dark green material on the way across the Shire. There were only a few people in the Prancing Pony that morning, and most of them were huddled around the fire trying to get dry. Only one man was sat at the long table, he was dressed in a black cloak with his hood throwing his face into shadow and he was smoking a pipe. Prim paid him no mind as she walked to the bar, before standing on her tip-toes so as to make herself seen by the inn keeper.

 

 "How can I help you little Miss?" he asked, slinging his dish cloth over his should as he grinned down at her.

 

"I would like some breakfast please," she answered, placing a copper piece on the bar from one of the deep pockets in her skirt.

 

"That'll be some bread, cheese, and ale," he said.

 

"That shall be just fine sir," she said.

 

Her order placed she took a seat at the table, making sure she was on the opposite end to the Ranger. She could feel his sharp gaze on her, making her cheeks flush and her breathing to quicken, she had never received this kind of scrutiny back home.

 

The inn keeper placing a loaf of bread, quarter wheel of cheese, and a pint of ale in front of her made her jump, and she found herself blushing again.

 

"Are you alright Miss?" he asked, giving her a concerned look.

 

"Yes, quite alright thank you," she answered, causing him to give her a nod and smile before walking away.

 

"You shouldn't be wondering around on your own." Lobelia dropped into the seat across from her and reached for the ale. "You don't know what kind of unsaviouries might be lurking around."

 

Primula tried very hard not to look over at the Ranger at those words, and instead watched as her companion downed half the ale.

 

"I was perfectly safe Lobelia," she answered, snatching back the mug. "I didn't even leave the inn."

 

"Well no harm done I suppose," said Lobelia, breaking the loaf in half. "So where are we going after Bree?"

 

This was the question that had kept her awake most of the night, pouring over the map which she had brought with them. She had decided that it was probably best to stay on the Great East Road if they had any hope of reaching Erebor.

 

"Rivendell," she answered, leaning forwards so that nobody could hear. "And then east to Erebor."

 

"And just what business do two halflings have in Erebor?" The voice came from behind Primula, making her squark in surprise and swing around.

 

The Ranger was standing there staring down at her with striking green eyes, his pipe held loosely in his right hand.

 

"Our business is our own," said Lobelia, holding up the butter knife threateningly.

 

"Of course it is," he answered, taking the seat beside Primula. "Unless it involves you traveling across Middle Earth to the Dwarf kingdom. Especially as there are things out in the Wild hunting for Hobbits."

 

"We think our cousin has gone there," said Primula. "We want to catch up with him and bring him home."

 

The Ranger gave a laugh at that, a deep booming sound that seemed to bubble up from his feet. "And just what would a Hobbit do in Erebor?"

 

"We don't know," answered Lobelia, giving her a dark look. "He just took off in the night."

 

He nodded at that, though Prim had a feeling that he didn't quite believe their story.

 

"Well halflings you are lucky," he said. "I have business in Dale which sits just below Erebor, I shall accompany you that far."

 

"Oh well that is very kind of you," said Primula. "Mister ...?"

 

"Scar," he answered. "I'm known as Scar."

 

"Oh," said Lobelia. "That's an unusual name, how did you come by it?"

 

Without a word he pushed back the hood of his cloak revealing an incredibly handsome face, well except for the long scar which ran from the hairline at his left temple to his chin. It was an angry red and looked jagged, as though it had been created by a particularly nasty weapon, how he had survived such a wound must be nothing short of a miracle.

 

"How did that happen?" she asked, pressing a hand to her mouth in shock.

 

 "That Miss," he answered. "Is a very long story."


	20. Love by Firelight.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas ... Gimli ... a fire ... can you feel the love tonight?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well I watched the extended version of the Two Towers today (especially for the Faramir parts) and couldn't help myself.

Legolas had been traveling for many weeks now with Master Gimli, heading to the southern reaches of Mirkwood and towards Lothlorien where he had kin who might be willing to aid them on their journey to Mordor. At the beginning of this quest Gimli had been incredibly vocal about everything that annoyed or irritated him, from Legolas himself, to how loud the birds were singing in the mornings. To be honest he had found the whole thing, and his small companion, highly amusing and often found himself chuckling at the cursing and grumbling that came from beneath that thick red beard. All in all the Dwarf was excellent company, and Legolas found himself growing more and more fond of him every day, something which he knew neither his father nor Gimli’s would approve of. At this point though he cared not what people half a world away would think about him admiring the colour of his Dwarf’s hair and the intricacies of his braids.

It was only when they had stopped for the night and were sitting beside the fire, one which Gimli was roasting the rabbit Legolas had trapped earlier that day over, that he was able to fully appreciate his new friend. Gimli’s hair all but glinted in the firelight, making it almost seem like it was part of the flames making the Dwarf seem almost otherworldly, an unconventional beauty that was so different from anything Elvish that Legolas couldn’t help but be intrigued by it.

Except it wasn’t just intrigue was it? He couldn’t lie to himself any longer, the denial was wearing him down and causing an ache to form in his chest. He wanted to be by this creature for the rest of the Dwarf’s mortal life, and to fade away in death beside him. He wanted to bury his fingers in that wild looking hair and see if it could be tamed by his will. It was ridiculous, insanity really, they had only known each other a few short weeks and during that time Gimli had done nothing but curse and complain every step of the way. But he had also made him laugh, had comforted him in silence when he had seen the fear in his eyes, and they had developed a deep communication that didn’t involve words. He was everyone Legolas had ever wanted in a partner, and he knew that this short stout and noisy creature was the other half of his very soul.

“What are you staring at laddie?” asked Gimli, glancing at him over the fire. “Have I got something on me face?”

“No,” answered Legolas, shaking his head. “No … well except the beard.”

“Why you …” began Gimli, but he held up a hand for silence.

“What I mean to say is it is a very fine beard,” he said, his fingers itching to bury themselves in said beard. “It suits you.”

“Oh.” Gimli nodded and began removing the rabbit from the fire, moving around to sit beside Legolas and share the meal. “Well in that case …”

He smiled at that, happy that he had made his friend all but preen in the firelight like a pigeon on a strut.

“And you …” said Gimli, one slightly greasy hand coming up to twist a lock of pale blond hair around a thick finger. “This is certainly becoming on you.”

This was it, the moment where Legolas could either take his chance and hope that he wouldn’t be rejected or the moment when he let it go in favour of friendship. With a trembling hand he pressed his palm against the Dwarf’s cheek, his fingers brushing against the grain of that fiery beard and he was surprised at its softness.

“I would.” He swallowed. “I would very much like to braid yours … if you will allow it.”

He knew the significance not just of his question, but of the act itself, it was a Dwarf courtship ritual braiding another’s beard as it showed the upmost of trust having someone’s hands so close to your throat.

“That would.” Now it was Gimli’s turn to pause as his hand left the strand of hair and instead smoothed down the length of Legolas’s porcelain white neck. “I would like that laddie, I would like that very much.”

And with that Legolas closed the distance between them to press his lips to the thin chapped ones of his One, his Dwarf … his Gimli.


	21. The Fellowship of the Ring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Faramir was absolutely the right choice to send to Rivendell. Bilbo is completely charmed. The fellowship is formed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this chapter immediately after finishing my latest offering of Emulhekh, so my writing style might be a bit different than what it has been for this story.

He was handsome. Oh who was Bilbo kidding? Throin’s betrothed was absolutely lovely, with his youth and soft features and gentle smile, it was clear why the Dwarf King had chosen him to rule by his side. Elrond even seemed charmed by Faramir, his eyes filled with a pleased amusement as he took in the young man clinging to Gandalf. Behind them all stood Dwalin and Balin, their gazes fixed on Bilbo and he found himself flushing under their scrutiny. He found himself unable to move, too scared to descend the steps in case Dwalin should reach for one of his axes and take it upon himself to follow his King’s order of taking the Hobbit’s head on sight.

“Bilbo.” Balin broke the silence which had fallen over all of them, stepping towards him. “By Mahal’s hammer laddie what are you doing here?”

He didn’t know how to answer that question, there was his desire to embrace his old friend and tell him all about his adventures of the past few weeks. Then there was the memory of Balin gently leading him away from the healing tent where Thorin and his nephews had lain dying, telling him that the King had released him from his contract and that he needed to return to the Shire.

“Mister Baggins here is the one that is going to get your missing Princeling back,” said Elrond, his eyes narrowing at the two Dwarves. “And so any previous quarrel that you have with him will not be welcome in this valley.”

“Quarrel?” said Balin. “We have no quarrel.”

Elrond, if possible, looked even more annoyed at that. “You may not Master Dwarf but your King certainly does.”

Both Balin and Dwalin glanced at each other, and when Bilbo looked over at Faramir he could see that the man looked confused.

“Laddie,” said Dwalin, his voice sounding almost broken. “Ye canna think you’re still banished. He sent ye enough letters.”

Bilbo sniffed at that, certainly Thorin had sent many letters over the years, each one more scything and condescending than the last. Probably written under the urging of his advisors to try and lure Bilbo back to Erebor so he could be put under trial and eventually execution, he hadn’t travelled for nearly a year with thirteen Dwarrow without knowing that they held onto grudges as tightly as they did their gold. Stealing the Arkenstone was something that the Dwarves would never forgive him for, it was something that they would probably still be singing songs about in a hundred years time.

“You have no idea,” hissed Bilbo, wrapping his arms tightly around himself. “No idea at all.”

Balin nodded sadly and then looked over at the young man with Gandalf. “Bilbo this is Faramir of Gondor. Faramir this is Bilbo Baggins … our Burglar.”

“Oh,” said Faramir, with a smile. “Are you a real burglar?”

He couldn’t help but laugh at that, and finally walked down the stairs unable to resist the gentle humor radiated by Thorin’s intended. “No, no I am a terrible burglar.”

Faramir laughed. “Oh I don’t know my mother always said that great things come in small packages.”

“Well,” said Bilbo. “I think Thorin’s decision to marry you is probably the best one he’s made so far.”

“It wasn’t really his choice,” answered Faramir.

There was suddenly a loud yell, and Boromir was racing down the stairs and wrapping himself around his brother and lifting him up in a strong embrace.

“Little brother,” said Boromir, placing the other man on the floor and cupping his face in his large hands. “I did not know that he would send you.”

“Of course,” answered Faramir. “He didn’t want bloodshed.”

Boromir laughed at that, and even Bilbo found himself smiling since if left alone a meeting between Dwarves and Elves probably would end in bloodshed.

“I know that you have had a long journey,” said Gandalf. “But before you rest we have things to discuss.”

“Things like what?” asked Balin, folding his arms across his chest and levelling Gandalf with a dark look.

“Like the fact that Prince Kili is being held in Mordor,” answered Gandalf. “And that Bilbo here has the One Ring of Sauron in his waistcoat pocket.”

*

Thankfully Elrond had decided that instead of discussing what had to be done about Mordor in the meeting room, and had organized for a meal to be served in the dining room in which the situation would be discussed.

“I am taking the Ring to Mordor,” said Bilbo, nibbling delicately on a lettuce leaf and ignoring the looks of horror thrown his way.

“Mister Baggins is the Ring bearer and is willing to cause a distraction for Sauron so that you can get your Prince out of Mordor,” said Elrond.

“Distraction,” growled Dwalin. “What distraction?”

“Bilbo is going to Mount Doom to throw the Ring into the fires there,” answered Boromir, giving him a quick nod which Bilbo returned.

“What?” gasped Balin. “Have you lost what’s left of your mind?”

“Probably,” said Bilbo, placing his lettuce back on his plate. “It is something that needs to be done, and I am the only one that can do it.”

“He needs guides and protectors to go with him,” said Elrond, from the head of the table. “The Ranger Arathorn, and of course Gandalf, will be accompanying him to Mordor. Boromir is needed elsewhere or he would be going also.”

“Of course we’ll go,” said Faramir, and they all looked at him in shock. “Mister Baggins is willing to put his life in danger for the sake of Erebor, the least Erebor can do is to stand by his side whilst he does it.” Bilbo found himself staring at him in awe. “And I believe our King would agree.”

“Aye laddie,” said Dwalin, clapping Faramir on the shoulder. “That he would.”

Bilbo looked around at those gathered, and with a sinking heart realized that the Fellowship of the Ring had been formed and that there was no turning back now.


	22. In the Dark of the Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We find out Scar's real name

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 10 points to anyone who knows who Scar actual is and what any of this could actually mean.

“You should be closer to the fire little one.” Prim looked up to see Scar standing over her, the fire bright behind him where she could just make out Lobelia stirring the pot hanging over it. “And not just for the warmth, but it is dangerous out here away from us and the light.”

“Oh,” she said, wrapping her arms around herself as she finally noticed the cold. “I’m sorry, it’s just that as much as I love Lobelia I need peace and quiet sometimes.”

He gave a soft chuckle at that, and the next thing she knew she was being wrapped up tight in his cloak and he was settled on the hard dirt beside her.

“I can completely understand,” he said, hugging his knees to his chest and smiling at her. “She’s rather full on.”

“That’s one way of putting it,” she answered.

They sat in companionable silence for a few moments just watching Lobelia puttering around the fire.

“So are you going to tell me the truth about what draws you to Erebor?” he finally asked, and she looked up at him in shock.

“I told you,” she answered. “My cousin Bilbo Baggins.”

“I somehow find it hard to believe that a simple Hobbit would just up and leave his smial one day in search of a lost Dwarf Kingdom,” he said. “No offence Miss, but you are hiding something from me.”

She knew that she shouldn’t trust him, after all he was a Ranger and she had known him for such a short period of time, but Bilbo’s story was so incredible that it just had to be told.

“He has been to Erebor before,” she answered. “Or at least we believe he has, he tells stories to the children you see and we have reason to believe that he travelled with the Dwarf King and his company to this lost Kingdom.”

“There are many stories of the company of Thorin Oakenshield,” he said. “Including a burglar who was neither Dwarf, Man, nor Elf.”

“Bilbo,” she whispered.

He nodded. “It is possible.”

“A month ago he disappeared and a host of dead orcs were found in his smial,” she said. “Lobelia and I found a letter from this King Under the Mountain begging him to come back … we assume to Erebor.”

“You do understand that he is probably dead?” said Scar. “Not many can survive an orc attack, least of all a single Hobbit in his hole.”

She shook her head, she had seen Bilbo use his little sword before and knew that he would have given these orcs a run for their money.

“No,” she said. “He’s alive.”

He ran a finger over the scar marring his face while staring at her with an appraising look in his green eyes.

“If you believe so,” he said. “Then so shall I.”

Prim didn’t know whether it was the cover of darkness nor the relative privacy they had been offered, but she found herself reaching up to touch the scar. “What is your name, like your actual name.”

He stared at her for several moments and then covered her hand with his own, gently removing it from his face.

“Eomund,” he answered. “That is my name.”


	23. Out of the frypan ...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kili wiped the back of his hand across his brow and winced as it irritated the wound there, it was here while standing on a thin ledge looking down the scarp and to the flat plains of Mordor that he realized this might not have been the smartest idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I went to see DoS last night which gave me amazing inspiration to write. However I found the whole idea of Tauriel annoying, not the character herself because I though she was amazing, but the idea that the only female character was there solely to cause a rift amongst the male characters. Why couldn't they have just introduced her without trying to get her together with like half the cast? Sorry for my rant but that just annoyed me.

There was blood in his eyes. Kili wiped the back of his hand across his brow and winced as it irritated the wound there, it was here while standing on a thin ledge looking down the scarp and to the flat plains of Mordor that he realized this might not have been the smartest idea. During his months of captivity he had heard stories of what had happened to those Dwarves who had tried to escape, and in his stupidity he had simply decided that none of them had been him. Seriously what had he been thinking?

The sound of a scuffle behind him the tunnel caused him to turn around only to find himself tipped over the edge of the ledge by the large body of his uncle smashing into him as the Dwarf came barrelling out of the mine. With a loud yell the two of them hit the shale together and were quickly rolling down the mountainside, the sharp rocks digging into them painfully as they did so. When he finally came to a stop, Kili flipped over onto his back and stared up at the black sky dazed for a moment before looking back up to the ledge. There stood his father taking on about four Orcs with a pickaxe, while he watched the other Dwarf quickly disposed of two in quick succession and then leapt backwards off the ledge somehow managing to stay on his feet while he ran towards them. He was certainly more graceful than a Durin that was for sure.

“Come on!” he yelled, grabbing Kili’s arm and dragging him to his feet. “That won’t hold them back for long.”

“We can’t go into Mordor,” hissed Frerin, struggling to his feet. “Its suicide.”

Kili looked up at where more Orcs were gathering above them. “Staying here would be suicide.”

They all looked at each other, all of them understanding that at this point pretty much anything they did would more than likely end in their deaths. Cursing under his breath Vili handed an Orc sword, that he had removed from one of his victims, to Frerin and then began leading them down into Mordor.

“ViIi!” yelled Frerin. “This is madness.”

Above them the Orcs were beginning to risk coming down the mountainside, and Kili found himself all but dragging his uncle in a run after Vili. Together the three of them hit the plain at a jog, but Kili knew that he was quickly beginning to succumb to his injuries since his head was becoming light and he kept losing his footing.

“You’re not going to make it.” Vili grabbed his arm, and with his other hand forced Kili’s chin up to look at him. “Kili …”

“No,” he hissed. “No I’m not going to die in this place, and neither are you.”

There was the sound of clashing metal, and swinging around Kili saw Frerin fighting off two Orcs with the sword he had been given.

“Some help please,” he said, swinging the blade and taking off one of the Orcs head.

Vili immediately jumped into the fray waving his pick axe around and easily taking out the other Orc. That was when something caught Kili’s eye, it looked like a small entrance to a cave, too small for an Orc to get in but just the right size for a Dwarf.

“Look!” he yelled to the two other Dwarves. “A cave.”

Glancing at each other, Vili and Frerin both walked over to the opening in the side of the mountain and soon deemed it safe enough to take refuge in for the time being.

“Alright,” said Frerin, getting on his hands and knees and crawling into the space. “It’s safe.”

Kili hobbled over to where Vili was standing.

“In you go,” said Vili, nodding at the cave.

“No,” answered Kili. “You go in first, I’m probably going to need you to pull me though because I don’t think I’ll be able to crawl.”

Worry creased his father’s face but he slowly nodded, then dropped onto all fours and crawled into the cave.

“Dwarf scum.” The rough voice of an Orc, a particularly ugly one at that, caught Kili by surprise and he would have lost his head if he hadn’t ducked in time. “You will pay.”

The Orc took another swing at Kili with his sword, but the young Dwarf was able to jump back as there was a sting at his temple before he hit the ground. The feeling of strong hand grabbing his arm startled him and before he knew what was happening he was being dragged into the cave, watching in horror as the Orc picked his betrothal braid off the ground.

 


	24. Blood Lust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “There are tales.” Legolas keened as Gimli pulled on his hair. “There are tales which I was told by the healers after the Battle of the Five Armies of dwarfs who would either start rutting in the middle of the healing tents, or would start fighting amongst each other.”
> 
> “Thorin,” answered Gimli. “My kinsman and King was released from the dragon-fever after the battle but his blood lust was stronger than any even Oin, my uncle, had seen. He spent two weeks stalking camp and attacking anyone that so much as looked at him. His intended was lost to him and he had no way of letting out the blood lust.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After seeing DoS I found that I was desperate to play with the character of Legolas, I wanted to show there was an evolution from the Legolas in The Hobbit and the one in The Fellowship of the Ring. This is what I came up with.

“Gimli.” Legolas’s voice broke through his dreaming, and he blinked against the early morning light as he awoke. “Gimli we must leave this place.”

The elf was leaning over him, hand raised as though to shake him awake, and there were worry lines creasing his fair face. Gimli didn’t like to see him like this, as though there was something dark just beneath the surface waiting to come out in response to danger. He had heard tales from his father and kin about Legolas, well the Legolas in which they had encountered in Mirkwood and Laketown on the way to reclaim Erebor. They talked of a young elf who had no care for any other than his own kind, and who was very much his father’s son in looks and demeanour.  Even though Gimli knew in his heart that that elf was in the past, that he had disappeared with the encouragement of his oldest friend and the dwarfs with whom he was now allied with. There had however been times throughout this journey that he had spied glimpses of, what he could only imagine, had been the Legolas of old.

Raising a hand he pressed it against the elf’s smooth cheek, and despite his misgivings drew him into a soft kiss.

“What’s goin’ on?” he asked, letting go of his beloved and reaching for his axe. “Laddie what’s happening?”

“Orcs,” answered Legolas, standing up quickly. “Riding hard and riding north. They hail from Mordor.”

At that Gimli quickly jumped to his feet, shrugging on his armour, and then watched as Legolas rapidly climbed a tree so as to get a better view.

“How many of them are there?” he asked, gripping his axe tightly in both hands.

“Maybe five,” answered Legolas. “They are traveling to fast to be heavily armed, I think we should stand and fight.”

Gimli had to agree with him there, he was recently bonded and there was blood lust heating up his veins, an instinctive need to prove his strength and worth to his intended. He had a feeling that Legolas was feeling something similar if his defensive posture and the barely leashed fury was anything to go by. The elf up in the tree was not the one who had made such sweet love to him the night before, instead he was a predator. A pure warrior through and through. Gimli had never been so turned on in his life.

Gracefully the elf left the tree and joined him on the ground, drawing his bow and aiming his arrow in the direction the wargs and their riders were coming from.

“Are you ready?” asked Legolas, and Gimli gave him a tight smile before smiling.

“Aye,” he answered.

Between one breath and the next Legolas loosed his arrow, and there was a scream from between the trees and in the next moment a riderless warg came charging from the undergrowth, quickly finding its throat cut by Gimli’s axe. The death throes of the warg must have attracted the others for it didn’t take long for the remaining four wargs and orcs to crash into the small clearing they had been camping in.

During the resulting skirmish Gimli all but lost sight of where Legolas was or what he was doing, but it didn’t take long at all for them to kill what was left of the small pack. The elf turned to him from where he had been standing on the other side of the clearing, long curved blade hanging loosely in his hand whilst it dripped blood onto the ground. Legolas’s tunic was covered in blood, both warg and orc, and he was breathing heavily as he stared at the dwarf. Gimli for his part was having to blink blood out of his eyes from where he had been caught on his brow with a glancing blow.

“Gimli.” Legolas’s voice was nothing more than a growl, and he wiped his sword clean on one of the orc carcasses before sheathing it and stalking across the clearing towards him.

For his part Gimli dropped his axe and then lifted his chin to keep eye contact with him, even though Legolas was considerably larger than he was it didn’t mean that he was just going to submit to him when he was driven by the fire in his blood. The moment the elf reached him, he gripped him by the hips before lifting him and pushing him against the nearest tree, quickly taking his mouth as he did so. Gimli didn’t get a chance to protest, and found himself simply opening his mouth for his bonded’s questing tongue and he soon found himself naked against the tree whilst Legolas all but licked the blood from his face.

“Oi.” Gimli gripped his face and forced those pale grey eyes to meet his. “Calm down aye?”

Legolas quickly shook his head and buried his face into Gimli’s neck, sharp teeth biting down on the sensitive flesh there.

“I can’t …” Legolas paused so as to pant against his skin. “… Gimli elves aren’t like this.”

“It’s alright love,” answered Gimli, reaching down to help him where he was desperately trying to unlace his breeches. “You are not a normal elf.”

“Dwarfs,” muttered Legolas. “Are dwarfs like this? Do they do this after battle?”

Legolas’s length now released from its confines, Gimli threaded his now free hands through that cascade of ivory hair and the elf arched his head back at the sensation.

“Aye,” he answered. “Its called the blood lust, it calls to us when those which we desire are in danger.”

“There are tales.” Legolas keened as Gimli pulled on his hair. “There are tales which I was told by the healers after the Battle of the Five Armies of dwarfs who would either start rutting in the middle of the healing tents, or would start fighting amongst each other.”

“Thorin,” answered Gimli. “My kinsman and King was released from the dragon-fever after the battle but his blood lust was stronger than any even Oin, my uncle, had seen. He spent two weeks stalking camp and attacking anyone that so much as looked at him. His intended was lost to him and he had no way of letting out the blood lust.”

He had control of the situation now, as if the sound of his voice had been enough to sooth his beloved, and taking his advantage he shifted his hips enough to catch the tip of Legolas’s arousal against where he was still slick and open from the night before.

“Gimli,” hissed Legolas, unable to stop himself from thrusting up into his heat.

“There we are,” murmured Gimli, digging his fingers deep into the muscles of Legolas’s back.

Neither of them lasted very long, the heat of the blood lust burning too fast and too fiercely for it to be anything other than a desperate rut against the tree surrounded their dead enemies. They both came in a screaming, growling embrace, their bodies shaking with exertion. Legolas refused to let him down for long minutes afterwards, still buried deep inside the dwarf, nuzzling happily against his throat.

“Hey,” said Gimli, hitting the elf’s shoulder when something caught his attention amongst the orcs. “One o’ these ugly bastards is holding something.”


	25. The King of Hearts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Faramir learns of the true worth of a Hobbit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter doesn't really go anywhere plot wise, but I thought it important for Faramir to learn of the Dwarfs past with Bilbo.

Faramir found that he rather liked this Mister Bilbo Baggins. He was gentle natured and sweet, though there was some spirit there behind his overly polite façade. To begin with the Hobbit had seemed hesitant around him, as though afraid that the much larger man would cause him harm or be judgemental. Slowly though over the period of several days on the road together he had warmed up towards him, spending more time with him than the Dwarfs whom he seemed to have a prior friendship with. Arathorn also tended to stay close by, whether it be from a dislike of the Dwarfs or just wanting to be close to one of his own race, Faramir did not know. The Elf Lindir had also joined them on their journey east, his long brown hair hanging part way down his back and his lithe form dressed in a dark blue tunic and trousers. He kept a fair distance from the Dwarfs and almost always reached for his curved blade when one of them strayed to close.

All in all Faramir felt quite sad for his small travelling companions, after all they had come all this way together and had treated him with nothing but kindness and kinship. That was why he was pleased to walk into the clearing they had decided to stop in for the night to find Bilbo have what appeared to be an animated conversation with Balin whilst sewing a button back onto Dwalin’s cape. There was something different about this scene, as though it was one that the three of them had experienced many a time before, and it made Faramir even more curious about the history they had all had together.

The first one he approached was Dwalin, who patted him sadly on the shoulder and informed him that it wasn’t his story to tell and that he should ask the Hobbit. It was advice that he took, but after questioning Bilbo on his previous history with the Dwarfs he only got a squeak in reply and then blushed bright red before scuttling off to talk to Lindir.

“It’s a long story lad,” said Balin, when he finally approached the older Dwarf. “And a rather sad one at that.”

“I am willing to hear it,” he answered. “If you’re willing to share.”

Balin nodded and then settled himself beside Faramir near the fire, holding out his old hands to flame for warmth.

“It was nearly four years ago,” he answered. “Thorin had been told by Gandalf that he needed to reclaim Erebor for the sake of his people, and so he gather a small company of thirteen Dwarfs and sent us to meet with Gandalf in the Shire, of all places, whilst he went to try and encourage the other Dwarf families to aid us in our quest. Unfortunately the other families refused us aid, and so we found ourselves numbering thirteen, that was until Gandalf found us a fourteenth member. A burglar.” He paused. “A Hobbit.”

Quickly glancing over at where Bilbo and Lindir were sitting with their heads close together and whispering to each other.

“Bilbo,” he said.

“Aye,” answered Balin. “It was his job to sneak into Erebor right beneath the dragon’s nose and steal the Arkenstone.”

“That is a mighty task,” he whispered, seeing the small figure in the firelight in an entirely different way.

“Yes it was,” said Balin. “We all came to be fond of our burglar you see, and after he saved Thorin from the pale orc Azog he became a very important and essential member of the company.”

“He did what?” demanded Faramir. “I have heard tales of Azog and he seemed to have been most fearsome.”

“He was beyond fearsome laddie,” said Balin. “And yet Bilbo stood before the body of our fallen King waving his letter opener around, like a true hero. And he saved our sorry hides many more times after that as well. By the time we got to Laketown he had proved himself more than worthy, and Thorin …” He suddenly looked uncomfortable. “Well I suppose you deserve the right to know laddie. You see Thorin and Bilbo became close … very close … and …”

“The courting room,” whispered Faramir, glancing over at the Hobbit. “He’s the one who Thorin had the courting room made up for isn’t he?”

Balin’s eyes looked sad. “Yes he is.”

“Oh well,” said Faramir with a smile. “We definitely have to bring him back safe and sound don’t we?”

“Faramir what …?” started Balin, and Faramir placed a warm hand on his shoulder.

“One of us should get a happy ending shouldn’t we?” he said softly. “And I can’t think of anyone more deserving.”

“Neither can I laddie,” answered Balin. “Neither can I.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all who have sent Kudos and comments ... I honestly can't believe how well this is being received.


	26. The Silver Hawk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It looks like dwarf hair,” he said, handing it to his bonded.  
> Gimli stared at it for several moments, and then rolled the silver and blue bead at the end of it around his fingers.  
> “It’s a betrothal braid,” he answered. “And this be a bead of Durin.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man do I have a new plot twist in the works ... hee hee.

It was a braid. A strange thing for an orc to be carrying that was for sure, or at least it was to Legolas who had never so much as attempted to understand the inner workings of these vile creature’s minds. Crouching down in the dirt he plucked the dark braid from the orc’s hand and held it up to look at. Behind him he could still hear Gimli shrugging into his armour, grumbling under his breath about inconsiderate elves, and it made Legolas to listen to it.

There was not a single thing about this Dwarf … his Dwarf … that he didn’t find charming, and though on the surface a millennia of conditioning by his father made him despair at his choice, there was something deep down in his soul that was singing in joy. However he knew that Gimli would never be accepted by his father nor his kin, if Tauriel was still alive she would have offered him support for she had befriended a Dwarf herself. But she had died, falling in battle protecting the young Prince Fili, and in her dying breaths it was she who had beseeched him to tell his brother of the love he carried in his heart. He gave himself a moment to grieve she who had been his greatest of friends, before turning to Gimli and showing him the braid.

“It looks like dwarf hair,” he said, handing it to his bonded.

Gimli stared at it for several moments, and then rolled the silver and blue bead at the end of it around his fingers.

“It’s a betrothal braid,” he answered. “And this be a bead of Durin.”

“Your Prince,” whispered Legolas. “Is it of your kinsman?”

“Aye,” said Gimli, looking up at him with sad eyes. “Yes it is.”

Legolas nodded and then stood up, searching the blue skies above them for several minutes before letting out a loud whistle.

“What are you doing?” demanded Gimli, grief making him angry. “Do you want more wargs to find us?”

Reaching out blindly his hand came into contact with that fiery red hair, and he carded his fingers through it soothingly whilst he watched the sky. It didn’t more than a few moments and a great silver hawk flew into the clearing, landing on a fallen log and staring at Legolas expectantly.

“I am sending this with a note to your King,” he answered, pulling a small piece of parchment and a small wooden pen from his pocket.

“And just what will you be using for ink?” asked Gimli.

Legolas looked around at the dead orcs and then at the dwarf. “I would have thought that was obvious.”

“Blood?” asked Gimli, looking ill. “You’re going to use their blood?”

“Yes,” answered Legolas.

He walked to the closest of the orcs, tearing the parchment in half, and then dipping the pen in an open wound which was still oozing blood on the orc’s chest. Writing a quick message on it, he wrapped the braid in the parchment and then attached it to the hawk’s leg. On the other piece of parchment he wrote another note and attached it to the bird’s other leg.

“This one is to go Erebor and the dwarf King,” he told the hawk, tapping the parchment which contained the braid. “And this one is to go to my father.”

With a shrill cry, the hawk flapped its wings and soared off back into the blue skies above the trees.

“Is it even worth continuing on?” asked Gimli, sadness etched onto his face and Legolas couldn’t help but to gather him close. “Is he already dead then?”


	27. King of Mirkwood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So,” said Thranduil, gracefully standing from his throne. “It is you that they have sent to persuade me.”  
> “The white council beseeches you to join them in their war against Mordor,” said Cirdan, stepping further into the throne room.  
> “Yes,” said Thranduil, slowly beginning to circle him like a predator before the killing blow. “I have just received a message from my son, he has run off with a dwarf of all things, informing me that there are both orcs and Nazgul hiding between my trees.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters in one night ... I actually had to cut this one in half because of length. So expect another chapter that leads on from this one tomorrow.

Cirdan was riding east as fast as his steed could take him. It had been three weeks since he had left Rivendell, having rejected Elrond’s idea to send a messenger to King Thranduil he knew that the warrior King would not listen to summons from Rivendell. So he had taken it upon himself to ride to Mirkwood and beseech Thranduil to join Elrond’s forces on a march against Mordor, after all there were none as well trained nor disciplined as the soldiers of the woodland realm.

Having passed the Misty Mountains with very little trouble, he was soon on the outskirts of Mirkwood. Here he pulled his horse to a stop and gazed upon the thick trees with trepidation. He had heard from Elrond that the darkness was beginning to recede from these woods, but even so he felt as if the very trees themselves were watching him. Placing one hand on the hilt of his sword, he urged his mount onto the path which led into Thranduil’s kingdom, knowing that even if the trees themselves were not dangerous the elves that resided in these parts were.

The journey was long and soon, beneath the heavy canopy and in the dimness of the woods he soon began to lose track of time. He continued on for what seemed like an age, following the path over hills and through tunnels, until he saw two elvish sentries standing in front of him.

“Halt,” said one of them, a female with long brown hair and a large curved blade in her hand. “What is your name elf?”

“Cirdan,” he answered, smiling at the elf. “The shipwright.”

The look on her face was priceless, and she turned to her companion who simply shrugged his shoulder.

“I believe him,” he said. “There’s not that many elves with beards.”

He grimaced at that, and flicked his blonde hair behind his shoulder. Cirdan knew what he was thinking, that an elf with a beard was no better than a dwarf, though there were none who would dare to say such a thing to his face. Well he though, looking beyond them to where the great city of the woodland elves stood, dug into great caverns beneath the ground. A testament to their long past friendship with the dwarves of Erebor.

“And just what would a Haven Elf be doing in northern Mirkwood?” demanded the female.

“I have come to see your King,” he answered. “I need to discuss the danger coming from the east with Thranduil.”

The two guards looked at each other again, before the female gestured for him to follow her as she walked towards the open gates of the fortress city. Dismounting his horse, Cirdan quickened his pace so as the catch up with her as she led him through the maze of corridors and passageways that made up Thraduil’s realm.

The great Elven King of the north was in his throne room, as cool as ice and as fair as a winters morn. He was dressed in a flowing silver tunic and trousers, with his waist length white-blonde hair falling easily over his shoulders. Cirdan allowed himself to look his fill as those pale grey eyes sized him up from across the room.

“So,” said Thranduil, gracefully standing from his throne. “It is you that they have sent to persuade me.”

“The white council beseeches you to join them in their war against Mordor,” said Cirdan, stepping further into the throne room.

“Yes,” said Thranduil, slowly beginning to circle him like a predator before the killing blow. “I have just received a message from my son, he has run off with a dwarf of all things, informing me that there are both orcs and Nazgul hiding between my trees.”

“Your son?” demanded Cirdan, reaching out to grab Thranduil’s wrist and cease his incessant circling. “You have a son?’

“And that is what you got out of that,” muttered Thranduil, rolling his eyes skyward. “But yes I do have a son.”

Cirdan drew him close, and as always he was amazed at the heat that came off of him when he expected there to be nothing but ice.

“Only your son?” he asked.

“Don’t be so obtuse Cirdan,” answered Thranduil, gently pulling his wrist from his grip. “If you have a question just come out and ask it.”

“Is he my son also?” he asked, cautiously reached out and placing his palm against one porcelain cheek. “Is he why you ran so far and so fast?”

Anger flashed across that grey stare, and the King stalked away from him to stand on the other side of the room with his back to him.

“You were returning to Valinor, and you knew that I had no desire to return to those lands.” Thranduil poured himself a glass of wine and drained it in one mouthful. “I found myself carrying the child of one who was willing to abandon us, so I came here and established the woodland realm and brought my son up to be an elf to be proud of.”

“You said that he had run off with a dwarf.”

At that Thranduil drained another glass of wine. “Well we all have our weaknesses.”

“I didn’t leave,” he said, taking a step towards the King. “Thrandul I am still here, do you honestly think that I would have left Middle Earth without you?”

“You wanted to return to Valinor,” answered Thranduil, turning around and meeting him in the middle of the room, poking him in the chest with one long finger. “And then you never came back, you knew where I was and you never came for me.”

That was unexpected. Cirdan had believed that his beloved had run from him out of a desire to be released from the early stages of their bonding, because he had decided that he no longer loved this rough dwarf-like shipwright from the kindly west. He had not known that Thranduil had wanted to be pursued, that this had been some sort of courtship ritual to prove how much he wanted this elf to bond to. How much he had wanted the child which had been growing within his belly.

“I thought you no longer wanted me,” said Cirdan. “That you no longer desired one such as me, that you had desired that you preferred Elrond after all.”

Thranduil raised one fine eyebrow at that. “Elrond is a meddling fool.”

“You did not think so once.” The memory of find the two of them embracing was one which still hurt.

“I did what I had to do to force your hand,” answered Thranduil, his confidence wavering as he looked away. “To make you realize that you desired only me.”

“You led Elrond on?” whispered Cirdan, cupping that lovely face in his calloused hands and forcing him to meet his eyes. “He was entranced with you.”

“Oh please Cirdan,” muttered Thranduil, reaching up to cover one of his hands with his hands. “He was always in love with Celebion.”

“As I was always in love with you,” whispered Cirdan. “You fled to other side of Middle Earth so as to lead me on a courtship dance, and though I may be a thousand years late I have returned to you.”

“And yet you will return to Valinor.”

Cirdan quickly shook his head. “Not without you.”


	28. King of Mirkwood II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I am not so naïve as to believe that you would have kept yourself celibate all this time,” answered Thranduil, pulling off his clothes gracefully and sliding onto the bed like a giant cat. “Nor would I have expected you to be.”  
> He settled himself back against the many pillows, crossed his ankles, and the held out his hand to Cirdan once again.  
> “Now are you going to join me or not?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Basically just 1000 words of smut.

Despite the fact that he glared at Cirdan every time their eyes met, Thranduil had invited him to dine in his private apartments that evening. He was sat stiffly in his chair, eyes trained on his food as though he expected it to try and crawl off of his plate, and he was eating tiny bites with a fork. It was clear that he was incredibly uncomfortable around Cirdan, but then again that was to be expected after their discussion in the throne room.

Thranduil, like all elves, was ageless, and outwardly looked no different to the elf he had loved all those years ago. However his eyes were sad, and his face was gaunt, and it made Cirdan afraid that he was fading away into death.

“You’re staring,” muttered Thranduil, not even looking up from his plate.

“I can’t help it,” he answered.

“Well then,” said Thranduil, standing up and offering his hand to Cirdan. “Are you coming?”

Cirdan looked first at the hand, adorned with rings, and then at his beloveds face. “Coming where?”

A flush raised up over Thanduil’s throat and cheeks, and he quickly looked away.

“To bed of course,” he answered.

He hadn’t come here expecting such a thing, had never imagined that he would be invited back into this man’s bed, but now he had Cirdan found that he didn’t want this opportunity to pass him by.

“You wish to bed me?” he asked, standing up and sliding his fingers along that finely boned jaw. “Are you sure?”

“Nothing has changed in that respect,” said Thranduil. “I never stopped wanting you.”

“Dear heart,” he whispered, drawing the other elf forwards so that he could press a gently kiss to the corner of his mouth.

Immediately Thranduil turned his head and chased his mouth, and Cirdan was unable to keep the passion from his kiss which caused a deep groan to come from the King’s throat. Strong hands clutched at his biceps, before sliding upwards and gripping his shoulders. In turn Cirdan let his hands fall to that slender waist, pushing up the material of the silver tunic so that his fingers could come into contact with warm ivory skin.

They kissed, unhurriedly, for several long moments slowly relearning the taste and feel of each other. Cirdan pulled back from the kiss, and then slid his lips along Thranduil’s jaw so as to scrape his teeth on a sensitive patch of skin just below his pointed ear. It caused an almost sobbing moan to come from the King, and his long fingers all but clawed into the hard muscles of his back.

“Bed,” muttered Thranduil, tugging him towards another door off of the sitting room. “It has been so long that I don’t think my legs will hold me.”

“Long?” asked Cirdan, allowing himself to be led through the door and into the bedroom. “How long exactly?”

Thranduil pulled away from him, levelling him with that pale grey glare for a moment before he pulled back the lavish covers atop the intricately carved bed.

“There was never anyone before you,” he said, and this Cirdan knew. “Nor has there been anyone since you.”

Cirdan felt a rush of heat at that. He had known from the start that Thranduil had lain with no others before he decided to give himself away to the burly shipwright, for he had been afraid that he would be rejected for his … abnormality. Cirdan could understand his hesitation, for it wasn’t in most elves to be understanding of those who were different, even amongst their own race, yet he had never had any issues with Thranduil’s body. In fact he had found the idea of having a lover with the sexual capacity of both a female and male to be a turn on, and he had decided in that moment that he had to have this amazing creature.

“I have …” He trailed off afraid that his confession that he had had several lovers since Thranduil, including one he was entertaining at present, would have him thrown from the room.

“I am not so naïve as to believe that you would have kept yourself celibate all this time,” answered Thranduil, pulling off his clothes gracefully and sliding onto the bed like a giant cat. “Nor would I have expected you to be.”

He settled himself back against the many pillows, crossed his ankles, and the held out his hand to Cirdan once again.

“Now are you going to join me or not?”

Nodding his head quickly, Cirdan shucked his clothes before crawling up the mattress and over the lithe body of his lover, bearing him down upon the pillows.

They kissed again, this time with more passion and with building desire, skin sliding against skin until Cirdan thought that he would go mad with the temptation of it all. It was after what felt like an eternity of desperate mouths and wandering hands, that Cirdan took hold of one of those long silky thighs and draped Thranduil’s leg over his hip.

“Please,” he murmured against the sweaty skin of Thranduil’s throat. “Please.”

“Yes of course,” answered the King, wiggling himself against the mattress so as to spread his legs even wider and then reaching for Cirdan’s aching hardness.

Together they got him positioned where Thranduil was swollen and wet, and then with a single thrust Cirdan sheathed himself within. The pleasure was enough to make him feel as though he was floating, and the body beneath him arched with a moan. Placing his hands on that pert backside, Cirdan held Thranduil’s hips up as he slowly began to move inside him which in turn increased the heat and wetness around him. It was a seemingly never ending cycle of pleasure, which in turned heightened pleasure, until they were both nothing but slaves to their baser instincts. Pushing and pulling at each other, fingers causing scratches and bruises on each others skin, until Cirdan forced himself to his knees and gripped Thranduil’s arousal. It didn’t take more than a few strokes, and well placed thrusts, and the King of Mirkwood was keening in his climax as he released in milky strings across his belly. However it was the contraction of his internal muscles, along with the sudden gush of hot liquid inside, that caused Cirdan to throw his head back and all but howl in victory as he released his seed within the other elf.


	29. The Last Homely Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I have only ever been here once,” said Scar, pushing back the hood from his face. “And that was a very long time ago, and I was a different person back then.”  
> “You’re afraid they won’t accept you?” asked Primula, looking up at him. “The elves?”  
> He looked at her and smiled.  
> “That is the least of my worries Mistress Brandybuck,” he answered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nobody commented on my last chapter *sobs* you don't love me anymore.
> 
> lol

Primula screamed and fell backwards, her sword clenched tightly in her fists as she pointed it at the snapping jaws of the warg. She could hear Lobelia screaming somewhere behind her, but she was far too afraid to turn and look at her. Part of her was beginning to believe that her companion was right when she had said that this quest was suicide, and she was even beginning to regret coming at all. To die here, in sight of Rivendell itself, was quite possibly the biggest disappointment of her short life.

Just as she was closing her eyes and awaiting the pain that would surely come before death, there was a yell and Scar appeared out of nowhere wielding his sword and easily slit the wargs throat before taking care of its rider. While Prim was still trying to catch her breath, he re-sheathed his sword and then scoped his bow off of the ground, notching an arrow in it and firing at the orc which was terrorising Lobelia. The arrow found its target perfectly, as did the next three as they took out even more orcs and wargs, one even being used as a dagger as an orc strayed too close to the ranger.

Soon all the orcs and wargs were dead, not that any had been felled by the two Hobbits, and Scar was simply striding between the corpses looking to make sure that none still lived. He still held his bow in one hand and there was a dangerous look on his face as he stared around him.

“Halflings,” he said, once his pacing had stopped. “Are you well?”

“Fine,” she answered, struggling to her feet beneath the weight of her sword. “I’m fine.”

“Well I’m not,” said Lobelia, and Prim glanced over at where she was standing with her hands on her hips. “I have had enough of this stupid journey.”

“Don’t despair mistress,” said Scar, turning to look in the direction of the valley ahead of them. “We are almost at Rivendell.”

Lobelia didn’t seem to find any comfort in this and she simply glared at first the ranger and then at Primula who was standing behind him.

“Very well,” she muttered. “Lead the way.”

\---

Rivendell was as beautiful as Primula had imagined it to be, in fact it was even more lovely than her fevered imaginings had led her to believe. She stood on the walkway overlooking the Last Homely Home, hand clutched in Scar’s cloak as she stared at the amazing image in front of her.

“It’s beautiful,” whispered Lobelia from beside them and Prim couldn’t help but nod her head in agreement.

“I have only ever been here once,” said Scar, pushing back the hood from his face. “And that was a very long time ago, and I was a different person back then.”

“You’re afraid they won’t accept you?” asked Primula, looking up at him. “The elves?”

He looked at her and smiled.

“That is the least of my worries Mistress Brandybuck,” he answered.

It took them a couple of hours to make their way down to the front entrance of Rivendell, and when they got there they were greeted by an incredibly handsome blonde haired elf.

“Good evening,” he said, giving them a small bow. “I am Glorfindel and what brings you to Rivendell?”

Scar rested one heavy hand on Primula shoulder and stepped forwards to meet the elf. Glorfindel looked startled at the sight of the ranger, but quickly collected himself.

“We come seeking shelter for a few nights,” answered Scar. “We were attacked by an orc pack on the borders of Rivendell and will need time to rest.”

“That can certainly be arranged.” The voice came from a completely different elf, and looking up Primula watched as he descended the stairs towards them.

He appeared older than Glorfindel, with long brown hair and a smile on his handsome face. Primula knew immediately that this was Lord Elrond.

“My Lord,” said Scar, bowing low to him. “We seek your hospitality.”

He nodded before moving to stand directly in front of the ranger, staring into his face for many long moments.

“And of course you shall receive it,” he answered. “But I will not have a deceiver in our midst.” He placed a gentle hand over the scar on his face. “You either show yourself mistress elf or leave these lands.”


	30. Drums of War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Uncle.” Fili’s voice was strained, and it almost broke his heart to look upon the devastated face of his heir. “Is it …?”
> 
> With his free hand he gripped Fili’s wrist, turning it so that his hand lay palm up, and then placed the braid in his hand.
> 
> “This belongs to you for now,” he answered. “Until we get its rightful owner back.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a teeny tiny update.

Thorin held up the braid and gazed at it for several long moments, before dropping the letter that had come from Thranduil’s son. It was as he had expected, the orcs of Mordor had sent a part of Kili, the part that would cause the most grief aside from his head, and that was a betrothal braid. Closing his eyes he made a fist around the braid and pressed it against his lips, oh how he missed his youngest sister-son.

“Uncle.” Fili’s voice was strained, and it almost broke his heart to look upon the devastated face of his heir. “Is it …?”

With his free hand he gripped Fili’s wrist, turning it so that his hand lay palm up, and then placed the braid in his hand.

“This belongs to you for now,” he answered. “Until we get its rightful owner back.”

“And how are you going to do that?” demanded Dis, stalking forwards and grabbing him by one of his braids to force him to dip his head and look at her. “When you just sit in your mountain and let those beasts do what they want with my son.”

Gently prying her hands from his hair, he held her wrists so that she was unable to strike him the way she so clearly wanted to if the anger in her eyes was anything to go by.

“There will be no more sitting and waiting,” he answered, shaking her quickly. “I will no longer play these games, I will be sending a missive to the Iron Hills requesting that Dain join us as we march on Mordor.”

“That’s insanity,” said Dori, stepping forwards. “We’ll all be killed Your Majesty.”

“We?” he asked, looking up at the grey haired Dwarf. “What do you mean we?”

“The company o’ course,” answered Bofur, from where he was fiddling with the edge of his hat. “Don’t be thinking you’re going without us.”

There was mumbling and nodding from the rest of the company, as well as a loud curse word in Khuzdul from Bifur.

Just as Thorin was about to answer them the door to the meeting room was thrown open and a furious looking Gloin stood holding his sides and panting for breath.

“Gimli,” he gasped. “Gimli’s missing.”


	31. Zhinûn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “No,” he said. “Please don’t.”  
> Vili held up his hands and glanced over at Frerin who raised an eyebrow and looked at the young Prince.   
> “Zhinûn?” he asked.  
> “Aye,” answered Kili, nodding his head.   
> “Well congratulations,” said Frerin, looking at Vili. “You have a daughter.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So much explaining needs to go into this.   
> 1) basically the main idea for Kili came up after watching DoS and a particular line of Tauriel's while in the elvish jail (10 points if you figure out which one). After watching AUJ and re-reading the book again I fell more and more in love with the idea so I went and researched ancient Norse history and tradition ... basically coming up with this idea.  
> 2) The ritual of ghurfîth is a bastardization of Norse and Celt fertility ceremonies, with a bit of originality thrown in there. If the idea of it squicks you out just know that it won't be discussed in explicit details, you just need to know that it happened and what it caused.   
> 3) I am willing to write the ritual of ghurfith in explicit detail as a prequel if people are interested in it.  
> 4) Don't hate me for this, just know that its a cultural thing (in my head canon) for Dwarves and there is no romance/relationship/love outside what is known in canon between these two I PROMISE. 
> 
> Also I would love love love for someone to do some fanart for this story ... I would do it myself but I can only draw stick figures which, while humorous, don't exactly do any of it justice.

_“My darling.” Her mother gently pushed the hair back from her face and clasped it at the back of her head in a simple silver clasp. “You know how I feel about you going on this journey.”_

_Kili glanced back at her and slowly nodded her head. “I know.”_

_“You’re barely of age, you only just had your ghurfîth,” said Dis, and Kili flinched at that particular memory. “Oh don’t give me that look it wasn’t that bad and all women have to go through it when reaching maturity.”_

_The ache deep inside her was only just beginning to ease, and the beard burn on her breasts (and other parts), something which Fili had teased her mercifully about, was still prominent against the white skin and scattering of dark hair._

_“Well he didn’t hurt you did he?” asked Dis, brushing the last of the long dark locks. “He was generous and considerate? He had better have been or else I’ll be taking an axe to his head.”_

_She felt a flush rise unbidden to her cheeks as she remembered her wanton cries as her body had given itself over to tender ministrations, whilst the eyes of all the men in her family had watched her lose herself that day. Kili knew that she shouldn’t be embarrassed, that it was her passage into womanhood and one day, should she ever have a daughter, it would be Fili as head of the family taking her virginity._

_“Yes mother he was … everything I could have expected,” she answered._

_“Well good,” answered Dis. “My brother is many things but he is not needlessly cruel, I had to have Thror and he insisted the ritual be conducted in the treasury.” He fingers tightened momentarily in her hair. “I still have nightmares about it.”_

_Kili covered her mother’s hand with her own. “That beast is long dead.”_

_A gentle kiss was placed on her hair._

_“Now did your uncle inform you that you must now dress, act, and view yourself as a man until your wedding?” she said, turning Kili around to look at her. “It is to protect you dear heart not just from our own kind but also from outsiders. Thorin did not only make you a woman but he has also made you a man, and it is of vital importance that you maintain that.”_

_“Yes mother,” she said._

_“Well good,” said Dis, getting to her feet and surveying her new son with his hair in the typical fashion, chest bound, and tunic in place. “Look at you my handsome boy, I am so very proud.”_

 

Kili woke up with a gasp staring at the dark ceiling of the cavern, musing over his dream until the pain in his leg drew his attention to the limb. He cried out in agony and reached down to grab where it hurt, only to have his hands batted away by his father.

“Don’t touch it lad,” he said gently. “You’ll only make it worse.”

“What’s happened to it?” he asked, laying back against the stone floor. “And what about the orcs?”

“It’s not broken if that’s what you’re worried about,” said Frerin, from where he was sat crosslegged on the other side of the cave. “The orcs are stupid and haven’t even thought to look here.”

“Well that’s good,” he said.

“Now let’s get these trousers off of you and see exactly how much damage has been done hey,” said Vili, reaching for the lacings which had Kili scrambling backwards in a panic.

“No,” he said. “Please don’t.”

Vili held up his hands and glanced over at Frerin who raised an eyebrow and looked at the young Prince.

“Zhinûn?” he asked.

“Aye,” answered Kili, nodding his head.

“Well congratulations,” said Frerin, looking at Vili. “You have a daughter.”

There was a long moment where the blonde haired dwarf stared at his child, before he shook his head and gestured at the lacings of the trousers.

“Never mind that,” said Vili. “We still need to check his leg.”

With shaking hands Kili undid the lacings and pushed his trousers down his legs, kicking off his boots so that they could be removed completely. There was a huge bruise on his right shin where it had caught on a particularly large rock during his fall down the mountainside, however it didn’t look as bad as it felt and he felt hopeful that there was actually nothing really wrong. Frerin had moved forwards and was checking out the leg. Vili however only had eyes for Kili’s stomach where the tunic had ridden up over that flat belly, and Kili hurriedly pushed it back down.

“Where is it?” he whispered, reaching out to his son before quickly pulling his hand back. “Where?”

“In the Iron Hills,” answered Kili. “With Lord Dain, as is per tradition on these matters.”

Frerin and Vili glanced at each other again, pretending not to notice the tears in those deep brown eyes.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Zhinûn - female - man


	32. Gap of Rohan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Dwarves are unusual creatures,” muttered Lindir. “And wizards even more so.”
> 
> Bilbo found that he had to agree with the Elf there, he had never really been able to understand much of what Gandalf said since it was always muttered in riddles and questions which nobody could make any sense of.
> 
> With that Lindir urged his horse into a trot so as to catch up with Arathorn who was trailing behind Dwalin and Faramir, his eyes on the sky.
> 
> “What is wrong?” Bilbo heard the Elf ask the ranger. “You seem troubled.”
> 
> “There is something not right,” answered Arathorn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't really have much to say about this chapter except R&R please ... I'm beginning to feel unloved.

Bilbo was incredibly grateful that Gandalf had decided to lead them through the Gap of Rohan and southwards towards Gondor rather than over the Misty Mountains. His memory of the paths which had led through the mountain passes were not good ones, it was there in which they had been attacked by the Stone Giants, and where Thorin had claimed that he had no place amongst the Dwarves. He had even less desire to travel through the mines of Moria beneath the mountains, for that was where the beast Azog had lived and where Thror, King of Erebor had lost his head.

The wizard had been missing in the early days of their journey, off doing whatever it was that he did when alone, however he had returned just as they had been deciding which way to proceed to Mordor. He had swooped in, knocked Balin over the head with his staff for even contemplating Moria and then all but dragged the entire Fellowship towards the Gap of Rohan.

“We encountered many orcs here on our way through,” said Balin, clutching the reins of his pony and glaring at Gandalf out of the corner of his eye.

“Aye he’s right,” answered Dwalin, chewing on his pipe contentedly. “Old bastard even got shot in the arse.”

Bilbo clapped his hand over his mouth to hide the wide grin he knew was there at the sight of Balin trying to kill his brother with a look. Oh how he had missed this, had dreamed of having this in his life again after so long.

“If there are orcs Master Balin I am sure we have enough strength here to overwhelm them,” said Gandalf, grinning at the Dwarf. “And I promise that you will not be shot in your behind again.”

They rode on in comparative silence, with only Dwalin and Faramir muttering to each other at the front of the group. The Dwarf was showing the man how to whittle wood into the shape of small animals.

“I didn’t know that Master Dwalin was a carpenter,” said Lindir, from where he was riding beside Balin and Bilbo.

“Oh he’s not laddie,” answered Balin, with a smile. “He’s never really mastered a craft that brother of mine, he’s a warrior through and through. Whittling however is something he’s always done to keep his mind and hands busy.”

This surprised Bilbo greatly as during their journey from the Shire to the lonely mountain he had never once seen the huge Dwarf whittle so much as a twig. Instead he seemed to have spent most of his time chasing the Princes, sharpening his weapons, or teasing Thorin.

“So why is he doing it now then?” he asked, hearing Gandalf let out a snort of laughter from behind him.

“Because he’s trying to keep his hands busy of course,” answered the wizard.

“Busy?” asked Bilbo. “Why would he need to keep his hands busy?”

Both Balin and Gandalf chuckled at his confusion.

“Dwarves are unusual creatures,” muttered Lindir. “And wizards even more so.”

Bilbo found that he had to agree with the Elf there, he had never really been able to understand much of what Gandalf said since it was always muttered in riddles and questions which nobody could make any sense of.

With that Lindir urged his horse into a trot so as to catch up with Arathorn who was trailing behind Dwalin and Faramir, his eyes on the sky.

“What is wrong?” Bilbo heard the Elf ask the ranger. “You seem troubled.”

“There is something not right,” answered Arathorn.

At that moment all the horses and ponies began to panic, thrashing their heads this way and that whilst stamping the ground and snorting. Bilbo clung tightly to his mount and turned frightened eyes to all those around him who had drawn weapons. And then he heard it, a sound like a hurricane coming down from the mountains, and he watched as Gandalf slowly closed his eyes and swore beneath his breath.


	33. The Silvan Elf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “And what are you running from?”
> 
> Tauriel stared at her in shock at that, a faint blush rising up on her cheeks, and then she ducked her head.
> 
> “I thought myself in love,” she answered. “Twice in fact, but neither was my One.”
> 
> “Oh,” said Prim, placing her hand over her mouth. “Oh a tragic love story?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So just a tiny update that doesn't really go forwards but explains Tauriel's story and how she got where she is now. I actually like the character of Tauriel but didn't like that she was only brought in as a love interest and way to make Legolas hate Dwarves before Gimli comes and sweeps him off his feet. So I've made her a strong, independent woman who does the feet sweeping from now on :)

Scar, as it turned out, was not actually a ranger but a very attractive female Elf. She had long auburn hair and sad grey eyes, but the scar still remained across her face doing little to mar her beauty. Prim had like her when she had thought her to be nothing more than a lonely ranger, she was even more enamoured now that she was Tauriel a great Elvish warrior-maid.

“So it is Bilbo Baggins that we seek?” she asked, walking into the library where Prim was flipping through a book on Elvish love poetry.

“You know him?” asked Prim, lowering her book to look at the Elf.

Tauriel nodded her head and settled herself down on a cushion across from her. “I was there at the Battle of the Five Armies. He was incredibly brave and stubborn.”

Prim laughed at that, it sounded very much like her adventurous cousin.

“So he ran from Erebor and now he’s run from the Shire?” she mused.

“It very much looks like it,” answered Tauriel.

“And what are you running from?”

Tauriel stared at her in shock at that, a faint blush rising up on her cheeks, and then she ducked her head.

“I thought myself in love,” she answered. “Twice in fact, but neither was my One.”

“Oh,” said Prim, placing her hand over her mouth. “Oh a tragic love story?”

“Yes,” laughed Tauriel. “I thought myself at first in love with my greatest of friends, and I believed that he loved me also, but his father disapproved and he did not seem to mind the disapproval and so I ignored my feelings. Then I fell for someone who was completely unacceptable, though after all this time I think I was just doing it to make my first love jealous and to anger his father. Though I think a Dwarf was probably not the best to act upon, he was safe though since he already had his One, not that he knew if at the time.”

“So did you leave looking for your One?” asked Prim.

“Oh no,” answered Tauriel, with another chuckle. “No I decided that it would be nice to get away from it all actually, to strike out on my own and see what this great world has to offer.”

So very similar to what Primula had done then, wanting to have a great adventure before she settled down with her beloved but admittedly dull Drogo for the rest of her life. She could completely understand why Tauriel had done what she had done, there was only so much heart-break one could endure.

“But why as a man?” she asked. “Why put on a glamour as a human man?”

“Because little Hobbit who would take a Elf maiden seriously in the towns of men?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So if Thranduil was going to ride into battle on a mythical creature which would it be Dragon, Griffin, Phoenix, or Pegasus? Or something else? Hit me with your ideas.


	34. The Alliance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just as he had been planning on turning and striding back through the open gates of his Kingdom, there was the sound of a horn from above them and he found himself turning to where the great cliff’s overlooked Erebor and separated them from Mirkwood. There sat King Thranduil atop his great stag, his crown in place on his platinum locks and a serene look on his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this has taken so long to update, I have been trying to make one last push to get my novel finished and ready for publication.

Dain had arrived. He had an army of 5,000 behind him and with Thorin’s further 3,000 he felt ready to finally begin their march for Mordor and to get his erstwhile Nephew back. They stood outside of the massive gates of Erebor, banging their foreheads together in greeting before the Lord of the Iron Hills took him to go and see his troops.   
They were indeed impressive, all of them in the finest armour and with the most solid looking weapons and shields, each and every one of them were Dwarves who had seen battle before and knew how to fight against the most vile of enemies.

“Very good cousin,” he said, clapping Dain on his broad shoulder. “They will do splendidly.”

Dain seemed to visibly preen at that, clearly relieved that his King approved of those he had hand picked to come to the aid of Erebor’s small Princeling. Seeing these soldiers here ready to take on the greatest foe any of them had ever known, or would ever fight against, he felt the slight that had been gnawing at him since he had all but begged for help four years ago start to dissipate. They were here and all of them were prepared to give their lives for Erebor’s sake.

“So when do we march?” asked Dain, eyes already straying towards the south.

“In two days time,” he answered. “Your troops will be in need of a much deserved rest before we continue to Mordor.”

Nodding his head, Dain gripped his cousin’s gauntlet and then disappeared towards where his Generals were located already yelling orders to set up camp and light the fires. Under normal circumstances Thorin would have offered them shelter within Erebor, but there were far to many of them to accommodate especially since not all of the living quarters had been renovated yet. He was pleased to see that his cousin did not expect such hospitality from him. 

Just as he had been planning on turning and striding back through the open gates of his Kingdom, there was the sound of a horn from above them and he found himself turning to where the great cliff’s overlooked Erebor and separated them from Mirkwood. There sat King Thranduil atop his great stag, his crown in place on his platinum locks and a serene look on his face, as Thorin continued to watch the horn sounded again and Elvish warriors appeared around their King. There were thousands of them, far too many to count from where he was positioned beneath them, yet it was quite clear that this was a full army. He and Thranduil stared at each other for several long moments before the Elf bowed his head, a single that caused his soldiers to begin to almost glide down the cliff to where the Dwarvish soldiers were. There was a lot of sword banging and angry yells by Dain’s troops but their Lord was able to keep them in order with a few yelled curse words and dark looks. 

“Brother.” He heard Dis’s voice and turned to look at where she was joining him through the gate. “What is going on?”

“I do believe that the Elves are coming to war,” he answered.


	35. Gram

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was a magnificent creature with scales of blue and gold, and wings that seemed to block out the sun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And I'm back.

It was a magnificent creature with scales of blue and gold, and wings that seemed to block out the sun. Bilbo could tell that it wasn’t quite as big as Smaug had once been, nor did it seem to have the many battle scars and burns upon its flesh that his one time foe had once carried. None of these things however made it any less terrifying as it circled above them, yellow eyes fixated on their small party and smoke curling from its nostrils. 

“How do we kill it?” he heard Arathorn ask Gandalf, and he couldn’t help the bitter laugh that escaped him.

“You can’t,” answered Balin. “There is no way to simply kill this beast, and the only weapon that can is many many miles from here.”

“Then what do we do?” demanded Faramir, sword unsheathed and raised. “We can’t even hope to outrun a dragon.”

“Stand an’ fight o course,” answered Dwalin, battle axe in hand. “Ain’t nothing more we can do.”

It was suicide, that much was clear, yet a part of Bilbo knew that they were simply going to try and buy him time to get away and continue his journey south. Dwalin and Balin though should have known better, should have known that there was no way that this particular hobbit could simply stand back and watch as his friends were slaughtered for his sake. He had stood before a dragon and survived once, he would do so again and then they would all get out of here alive. 

“I suggest fleeing,” said Gandalf.

“Of course you do,” said Balin, raising one shaggy eyebrow at the wizard. “Seems that’s all you do.”

At that Gandalf started grumbling angrily beneath his breath, words that at least made Lindir smile and unhook his bow from where it rested on his saddle. 

“I hope you know,” he said to Dwalin as he rode closer. “That I’m a minstrel, and so I shouldn’t be subjected to fighting dragons.”

“You any good with that bow laddie?” asked Dwalin. 

“Fair,” answered Lindir.

All of a sudden there was a loud howl in the air and the dragon landed gracefully in front of them, folding its wings against its enormous back and then lowering its head to look at them.

“Which one of you is the Halfling known as Baggins?” It demanded, voice an odd mixture of smoke and a feminine lilt. 

With that the other members of the fellowship closed ranks around him, and Bilbo found himself all but having to peak between Faramir’s legs to get a glimpse of the dragon. What it wanted with him, he had no idea, but there was no way it could be a good thing.

“Who wants to know?” asked Arathorn, his voice still strong despite his opponent.

“My name is Gram,” answered the dragon. “The once mate of Smaug the Terrible.”

Dread curled up in Bilbo’s stomach, and he knew that no matter what his friends did or said, he was going to die here today. At least from what Bofur had told him all those years ago death by dragon fire wasn’t particularly long nor painful.

“Lindir,” he whispered to the elf. “Should you happen to survive please tell Arwen that I love her and that I always will.”

With nothing more than a glance back at him, Lindir placed one enormous hand on his shoulder and gave it a squeeze.

“Aye and what do you want with him?” asked Dwalin, brandishing his axe.

“I wish to speak to the one who outwitted my mate,” said Gram.

He couldn’t risk the lives of his friends, not for the sake of this ring whom really anyone could carry to Mordor, there was also the possibility that dragon fire might just be hot enough to destroy the blasted thing. Taking in a deep breath he pushed his way between Faramir and Balin to stand before the dragon.

“I am Bilbo Baggins of Bag End,” he said, standing tall and ignoring the cries of anguish from his friends. “And it is I who stood before Smaug in the treasury of Erebor.”

With a plume of smoke Gram stepped forwards, enormous talons making huge ruts in the ground and her wings slowly unfurling. Bilbo closed his eyes expecting to feel nothing but agony and then nothing.

“Then I owe you a lifetime of gratitude Halfling,” said the dragon. “And I am forever in your debt.”


	36. The Golden Realm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Does the fairest home of my people please you beloved?” Legolas glanced over at Gimli who was walking beside him, footfalls heavy as he gazed up at the golden canopy above. 
> 
> “Aye.” Despite his wonder Gimli still had one hand resting on the hilt of the small robust sword at this hip. “It’s nothing like Mirkwood.”
> 
> “No.” Legolas shook his head. “It is not.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been awhile and for that I'm so sorry.

There was something about the way his bonded’s eyes lit up with wonder when they entered Lothlorien that caused Legolas’s heart to clench. Ever since they had taken the betrothal braid of Prince Kili from the orcs Gimli had been quiet and withdrawn, leaving Legolas without any knowledge of how to comfort him. Their people were so very different that he knew that the Elvish ways would probably do no good here, may even cause Gimli distress. So instead he had merely held that solid body close at night and stroked his fingers through coarse red hair, and it seemed to work if only for a while.

“Does the fairest home of my people please you beloved?” Legolas glanced over at Gimli who was walking beside him, footfalls heavy as he gazed up at the golden canopy above.

“Aye.” Despite his wonder Gimli still had one hand resting on the hilt of the small robust sword at this hip. “It’s nothing like Mirkwood.”

“No.” Legolas shook his head. “It is not.”

For many millennia the realm of his father had been in decay, and with it the mindset of his father. There were many who claimed that the King was suffering from a broken heart and that he was wasting away, this was something that Legolas had seen himself. It was quite likely that Mirkwood itself was dying right alongside his father and if this was the case then Legolas had no idea how to fix it. Or indeed whether it could be fixed.

Taking a deep breath Legolas cleared his mind of those thoughts, it would do no good to enter the realm of Galadriel with heaviness in his heart. They had a quest to complete and wallowing in the problems of Mirkwood would do none of them any favours. Prince Kili had to be found and returned to Erebor, everything else could wait.

“You seem awfully deep in thought.” Gimli’s gruff voice dragged Legolas from his depressing thoughts, and he forced a smile on his face before turning to look at the dwarf. “Everything Ok amral?”

“Of course. Just thinking on the journey ahead.”

With a bright smile beneath his fine beard, Gimli reached out to pat him on the shoulder. “It will be fine laddie, there’s not an orc alive that can keep me from my kinsman.”

Of that Legolas was sure. Gimli was a force to be reckoned with and a fine warrior indeed, with the hot blood of his kind and the bravery of a Durin, his dwarf could probably take on all of Mordor single handedly if he so desired. Not that Legolas was going to let him do anything quite so insane as let his bonded march into Mordor alone.

Lost in thought once again, Legolas caught onto the fact that they were being hunted far too late. Soon they were surrounded by a ring of Lothlorien elves, all of them with arrows pointing straight at Legolas’s heart and Gimli’s head. Holding up his hands in surrender he kept his eyes on the elf who was clearly in charge, a rather short and robust individual with brown hair and a cold look in his eyes.

“And what business does an elf from Mirkwood and a dwarf have in Lothlorien?”

His voice was carefully devoid of any emotion, and Legolas remembered a time when he would speak much like this. When it was important to be nothing more than a soldier, a drone solely in service to the realm. He glanced over at Gimli quickly, if it hadn’t been for this hot tempered dwarf at his side then he would still be much the same. For that Legolas didn’t think he would ever be thankful enough.

“We are here to seek guidance from your Lady Galadriel.”


	37. Elves of Mirkwood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “He may be, but he has kidnapped my kin in the process.”
> 
> Dain gave a deep chuckle. “And you’re so sure that young Gimli is with him against his will?”  
> “Of course.” Thorin nodded his head while still glaring at the trees ahead. “Why else would he be there?”  
> There was a moments silence and then Dain reached out to place a hand on Thorin’s arm, drawing him off the path they had been following and allowing the platoon of dwarvish warriors pass. 
> 
> “It wouldn’t be the first time a dwarf has found his one outside of his own race.” Dain’s voice was low as though he didn’t want those around them to hear. “Or even one of Durin’s own folk.”

If you asked Thorin the only good thing about having so many elves around was that they at least knew all the shortcuts through Mirkwood. This meant they were less conspicuous as they would have been on the main road through the Brown Lands as they travelled towards the Emyn Muil. Not only that but there was more to hunt and scavenge, plus a lot of the Iron Hills soldiers soon gained a taste of the sweet bread that the elves provided. 

“Damn handy these lads are.” Dain was striding beside him, one hand resting lightly on the hilt of his broadsword. 

“You better not be talking about the tree-shaggers,” said Thorin. 

“Don’t you think it’s about time you dropped this old fight?” Dain was smiling over at him. “It’s been going on long enough.”

Thorin felt his mouth curl down into a frown and he refused to look back at his cousin. There were many in his court who had been trying to tell him to forgive the elves, and Thandriul in particular, but he just couldn’t bring himself to do it. That day when dragon fire had consumed his entire world and Thandriul had turned his back on them still haunting his days and nights. Not only that but then the bastard had gone and imprisoned them while they were trying to retake Erebor. 

“No I do not.”

There was a deep sigh from the dwarf beside him. “You do realize that King Thandriul’s only child is ahead of us by quite a few days, and he’s looking to march straight into Mordor himself and bring your heir back.”

“He may be, but he has kidnapped my kin in the process.”

Dain gave a deep chuckle. “And you’re so sure that young Gimli is with him against his will?”

“Of course.” Thorin nodded his head while still glaring at the trees ahead. “Why else would he be there?”

There was a moments silence and then Dain reached out to place a hand on Thorin’s arm, drawing him off the path they had been following and allowing the platoon of dwarvish warriors pass. 

“It wouldn’t be the first time a dwarf has found his one outside of his own race.” Dain’s voice was low as though he didn’t want those around them to hear. “Or even one of Durin’s own folk.”

At those words Thorin finally looked up at his cousin, knowing that his shock must show on his face. There weren’t many in Middle Earth that knew about his bond with a Hobbit, it was important if he was going to continue with his marriage to Faramir. At the thought of his betrothed Thorin ran a hand over his slowly growing beard, he knew that he had to do right by the young human whether he was his One or not. 

“It doesn’t matter who my One is as I am to be married.”

Dain nodded his head. “That you are, and if I may say so your betrothed is indeed rather lovely.”

With a soft laugh Thorin patted Dain on his huge shoulder. “He is that.”

“And you’ve always been a fool for a pretty face.”

The groan Thorin released at that was long suffering. His youth had been suitably ill spent as was fitting a Prince of the richest Kingdom in Middle Earth, and he had been known to take only the prettiest to his bed. Nothing had really changed in his old age.

“I have far better taste than you cousin.”

“That you do.” Dain gave him a wink. “So why would it be so unusual that Gloin’s boy not find himself enamoured with one so fair of face?”

“I suppose it would be useless for me to forbid their bond?”

Dain gave a deep belly laugh that seemed to echo around the forest, causing many of the elves to look over at them wearily. “Oh Thorin you could no easier stop the sun moving across the sky.”

With that Dain stepped back onto the path and started walking beside one of the elvish royal guards, his loud voice seeming to surprise the poor creature into leaping a good foot in the air. Thorin found himself grinning despite the horrific news that his own kin could be bonding with an elf of all things. 

Though he would make life as difficult as he possibly could for Thanduil’s son.


End file.
